Of Choices and Regrets
by Nathalie B
Summary: We all know what happened the night of Dumbledore's death. We know how Harry felt, and what he did. But what about Draco? What happened to Draco that terrible night? This is his story. Follow Draco through his summer as he remembers that horrid night.
1. The Death

The Death-

Draco Malfoy snuck out of his dormitory late at night. His hastily thrown on cloak billowed out as he crept down the dark hallways to a familiar blank patch of wall. On one side of the corridor was an enormous tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy being clubbed by trolls while trying to teach them ballet. Passing back and forth, a door appeared to his right. After making sure the coast was clear, Draco entered. The room was stuffed with everything imaginable: books, furniture, bottles, weapons, hats, toys, cages, and paper littered the huge room. He picked his way carefully over to a broken cabinet. After scribbling the code and pushing it in, he waited for the others to come.

After what seemed like a lifetime, the death eaters arrived. First Amycus and his twin sister Alecto came through the Vanishing Cabinet, then five others, then, finally, Fenrir Greyback. Draco was shocked; the werewolf shouldn't be there! But he quickly regained his composure, and took on his normal smug look.

"I am going to check the hallway, then we'll move to the tower," he told them. He cracked the door opened and saw a flash of red hair. He quickly took out some Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder and threw it in their direction before giving the Okay.

As if in a daze, he followed the others to the tower, and watched them start the fight with the Order members. He quietly slipped past and slinked up the staircase to the ramparts. Draco had been planning this moment for over a year, and now that it was here, he only wished to be done with it. He threw open the door, and, exactly as he had planned, there was Dumbledore.

He quickly disarmed him. This was easy, an old man just waiting to be killed. Draco allowed a smile to tug at the corner of his mouth, but he wasn't going to relax yet. Dumbledore hadn't even seen it coming. But there was a second broom. He hadn't planned for that.

"Good evening, Draco." What was this? He was going to kill him, yet Dumbledore said that? Draco continued like nothing was said. He was in control.

Then it happened: "Draco, Draco, you are not a killer." In that simple statement, Dumbledore confirmed all of his fears. He wasn't cut out for this job; he wasn't going to be able to do his task; he had failed his mother and father; he couldn't be a death eater. Dumbledore kept talking, and, for some reason, Draco kept responding.

The conversation turned unexpectedly then. "So let us discuss your options, Draco."

"My options! I'm standing here with my wand - I'm about to kill you!"

"My dear boy, let us have no more pretense about that. If you were going to kill me, you would have done it when you first disarmed me, you would not have stopped for this pleasant chat of ways and means." Dumbledore said calmly.

"I haven't got options! I've got to do it! He'll kill me! He'll kill my whole family!" Suddenly, the blood left his face.

As Dumbledore talked, Draco only half listened. He would be the reason his family would be killed; yet he couldn't bring himself to do the one thing that could save them. He would be a killer either way, and no one could help him, no one could save him.

"…I can help you, Draco."

No, no one can; no one can stop the murder.

"He cannot kill you if you are already dead. Come over to the right side, Draco, and we can hide you more completely that you can imagine. What is more, I can send members of the order to you mother tonight to hide her likewise. Nobody would be surprised that you died in your attempt to kill me – forgive me, but Lord Voldemort probably expects it. Nor would the death eaters be surprised that we had captured and killed your mother – it is what they would do themselves, after all. Your father is safe at the moment in Azkaban…. When the time comes, we can protect him too. Come over to the right side, Draco… you are not a killer…."

_I am not a killer_, Draco thought. Come over to the right side…. He lowered his wand, little by little… _They can protect my family and me_…

Four death eaters, black robes billowing out behind them in their hast, thundered up the stairs and burst through the door. Still in a daze, Draco groggily, yet fearfully, looked on as they scornfully mocked the old headmaster. There was a chance… he could still be protected…. Then Snape burst in, eyes wildly sweeping the scene. Gliding over to the pleading Dumbledore, he summoned all his hatred and pointed his wand at Dumbledore.

"Avada Kedavra!"

Draco woke up in a cold sweat. The fresco above his luxurious bed was the first thing his eyes saw, as they did everyday. Ever since that night, he woke up this way. It was almost July, yet he shivered under the covers. Lord Voldemort had been mad, but hadn't killed his family. He had been so close to freedom, to life without constant killing and fear. But Dumbledore was dead, no one else had heard the offer, and the order wouldn't even think twice before killing him if he tried to contact them, much less let him go back to school. His life was over, and he had to accept that.

He got out of bed and prepared for the boring day ahead. No one was allowed into the house except his mother, and he wasn't allowed to go out. Not that there was any place he wanted to go to, or any person he wanted to see.

He slowly walked around the house, calling the house elf every now and then. It was his only entertainment. He made is way to his parents bedroom. Draco looked through their things for something, anything, of interest, carefully replacing everything he touched. Such spying was good practice, he thought, it would be better than an assassin. Before he was finished, he heard a door slam. His mother was home.

"Draco! Draco, where are - oh, there you are!"

"Hello, mother."

"Have you had a nice day? I have had a fine one! If you could do a favor for me…" It was the same as every day. She would come home, feign interest in him, and then send him away on some task that the house elf could have easily done. He wouldn't see her again until dinner, and then she would disappear when the dishes did.

Draco sighed. Why did he love her so, yet she seemed to care so little for him? He went away, thinking about his life. Money certainly wasn't everything. He almost wished he were a Weasley.

The next night was the same, as was the day. This continued like clockwork for the next week. Then Draco remembered the job he had begun. He sauntered into his parents' bedroom. His mother wouldn't be home for at least four more hours. He looked through the dresser, the bookcase, and, finally, the closet. He found old boxes of pictures, letters and trinkets.

In one labeled "Memories" he found a picture of three young girls. The youngest, he knew, was his mother Narcissa and the next was his Aunt Bellatrix. The third and oldest, he guessed, must be his Aunt Andromeda. She had been disowned when she had married that muggle… Tronk, or Tanks, or maybe it was Tonks. Yeah, it was Tonks. Whatever happened to them? But before he could delve deeper into the box, he heard the slamming door and knew what would happen next.

"Draco! Draco! I'm home!" his mother yelled, like she did every day. He quickly replaced everything and snuck out of her room into the adjacent one before she came upstairs.

He slid back into his room later that night after the mindless task she had given him and the silent dinner that followed. Draco sunk into a chair and buried his head in his hands. He had no life in him; he was simply going through the motions. He couldn't do anything he wanted to do. School was now out of his reach, he was under house arrest, and freedom had always been impossible for him. Control of his life was given to the Dark Lord without his consent; his mind, his last sanctuary, was forced open to his cold master.

What had he done? Trying to protect his parents he himself had fallen. Potter made it look so easy, yet he didn't have the lingering consequences Draco was forced to bare. Telling himself that he should be stronger than this, Draco climbed into bed for another restless night.


	2. Running

Draco was running. He ran past Death Eaters and order members, past fallen walls and people, past dark corridors and bright spells. His heart was pounding in his chest; his breath was quick and ragged. His eyes swung widely in their sockets, yet he saw nothing. Draco Malfoy, newest recruit of the Dark Lord and youngest Death Eater, kept seeing Dumbledore's death. Although he had never fainted in his life, he was going to pass out. He wanted to sleep and never wake up. He wanted to close his eyes and erase the entire day. He wanted it all to be a dream. But it wasn't, and now he was running for his life. His life was utterly finished.

Draco looked behind him and saw Professor Snape right on his heels. Anger boiled in him. He could have left this miserable excuse for a life, he could have been safe. Snape didn't look at Draco, yet continued to urge him to go faster. Everyone had thought Snape was a spy and a friend of Dumbledore's.

Now Draco saw Snape in a different perspective. Snape was a coward that attached himself to the strongest person in the war like a little toddler attaches himself to the child with the most toys, like a mosquito attacks the person with the sweeter blood. Snape got in as deep as possible while still having an escape route. He didn't kill Dumbledore for Lord Voldemort. He killed Dumbledore for revenge, to escape from the Order of the Phoenix, to show his true colors, to get glory. He killed him for himself.

Draco let out a cry of rage and willed himself to speed up. He was out of the castle now, and his feet pounded along the school grounds. Stumbling along the uneven footing, there was only the thought of survival. Draco barely noticed when he fell and tore the edge of his robe, and Snape's call to go faster didn't even penetrate his mind. The only thing that woke him of his reverie was a shout full of pain and sorrow, of anger and regret. Draco swung around to find the source.

Potter's diminutive figure was sprinting at an inhuman speed toward the small group of Death Eaters. Snape turned and ran back with a clouded face. Draco lost his nerve and, letting out a yelp like a kicked puppy, he ran for the gates. He saw Snape and Potter fight, and saw the flames from Hagrid's hut, but he barely registered the action.

He caught his breath while waiting for his old potions master. For safety reasons, they had not told him where he was supposed to go after the job was done. Voldemort had thought that he might crack and tell someone. At the time, Draco resented it, but he now knew how right the Dark Lord was. He would have told Dumbledore ages ago if he had known he could have been hidden.

Draco slumped against a tree and slowly slid down the rough bark to the cold, wet ground. He had no strength inside him, and no reason to get up. He was dead even if his body was still alive. His soul had died along with his last chance at freedom, and he was now a walking corpse ready to lie down for the last time. Shear will and pride kept him from crying. He couldn't do it; he couldn't be a Death Eater.

After what seemed like an age, yet was only a few seconds, Snape ran into view. He coldly looked down at Draco and roughly jerked him onto his feet.

"We must go to the Dark Lord now."

Draco felt himself nod, and clutched Snape's arm as much to prepare himself to side-along apparate as to steady himself. After a breath, he felt a squeeze, and was pushed through a tube where there was no sound, no light, and no relief from the constant pain. This was now his life.

Draco woke up breathing heavily as if he had just run a race. He untangled himself from his jumbled sheets and looked at his clock. It was barely five in the morning, yet he was wide-awake. He was used to it now. Shaking his head to dislodge any lingering thoughts of that terrible night, he quietly dressed and left his room in search of a distraction.

The library at the Malfoy Manor was known for its size and was meticulously added to and updated, yet the majority of the time the huge room was empty and still. When he was younger, Draco wasn't allowed into the library, as his father had feared that he would make a mess or find something he shouldn't. His mother wasn't one for magazines full of gossip and bright pictures much less the dusty old tomes. She was much more socially orientated. Rather than becoming more knowledgeable, she preferred to spend her time at mindless parties, pretending to be busier than she really was.

Lucius Malfoy, his father, was an important and influential person, and had never been home. Earlier, he had spent his time planning and carrying out ways to manipulate people to follow his every whim, and give him anything he wanted. While it had made the family richer and more powerful, it had also attracted the attention of the aurors, and the envy of every pure wizard family. Lucius Malfoy hadn't seen his son grow up, and he wasn't here to see the man Draco had become, although now it was the Azkaban guards that kept him away. For that reason, the Manor was always watched, but the Dark Lord now guarded them. Trapped between Aurors and Death Eaters, Draco couldn't leave the sanctuary of his dark house. At first, it was a blessing that he was left here to escape the world, yet now the Manor had become a prison, and he wanted to go into the world to escape the bleak house.

One day, his wanderings had led him into the quiet room, and he had taken a liking to it. The old books and hushed atmosphere made him feel as if there was no change in the world, that everything would stay exactly the same, and that the hurts of the war couldn't touch this room and its inhabitants. The books let him escape from his living nightmare. They taught him things that no teacher could truly teach, and much that any person could teach. As he couldn't go back to Hogwarts, he took it upon himself to continue his education. It was expected that every Death Eater be up to scratch, and because the schooling at Hogwarts had been so random and jagged he had much to learn.

It was the first week in August when he found the book. It was completely black with elegant silver writing. It looked eons old, yet it was in perfect condition. He flipped it open randomly and found names heading each yellowing page. On that sheet, he found information about that person, where they live, and a small picture. At the back of the book he came across a page with his name on it. He read it with wonder. They had listed sneaking the Death Eaters into Hogwarts and assisting in killing Dumbledore under his achievements. He flipped to the page before and found "Nymphadora Tonks."

_She must be my cousin_, he reasoned. He looked at her picture, a woman with a heart-shaped head and violent pink hair. He read her information with growing awe. She was an auror, and had recently married Remus Lupin. Wasn't that his old Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher? He had been a werewolf, and Lucius, with the help of Draco, had ruined his reputation and had helped get rid of him. He seemed so old and worn, even when Draco was a third year. Nymphadora wasn't that much older than Draco himself. What had she seen that had made her marry Lupin? She lived in Grimmauld Place, called "The Ancient and Most Noble House of Black." If her mother had been disowned, than why was she now living in the family manor? That house should have come to him, as his Aunt Bellatrix had killed her cousin Sirius, and Draco was the next male in that family.

A smile tugged at his mouth. He had family outside; he had a chance to live. As quickly as his good mood had come, it left. She could protect him better than an ordinary person, yet she would be trained, and told, to kill him without a thought. He would be considered a dangerous Death Eater. He took a deep breath. She had given him hope, but should he risk his life for a chance to live? In his mind, there wasn't much of a choice at all.


	3. A World of Pain

A World of Pain-

Draco's feet slammed into the ground and he stumbled forward before collapsing to his knees. He blocked his mind of all thoughts and feelings. They were not welcome here. He felt movement around him and he looked up. About a dozen Death Eaters were staring at him, including his mother and his aunt. Past the crowd of black masks and robes he saw a figure that chilled his blood and made him want to run. Voldemort sat calmly on his thrown looking down at Draco. As silent and still as the Dark Lord was, Draco knew that he could strike at any moment, like the snakes he loved so much. The face was the stuff of children's nightmares, and the expression was the stuff of an adult's.

Snape dragged him to his feet and pulled him up to the Dark Lord's platform and fell to his knees. Draco did the same, and bowed his head so that he didn't have to look at the blazing red eyes.

"Tell me, Severus," the Dark Lord hissed. "Was it not Draco's job to kill Dumbledore? Yet Fenrir informed me that you were the one that did the deed. Surely you understand my… displeasure."

A shudder ran through Draco's cold body, yet Snape calmly answered, "The boy was unable to go through with the murder. He instead led us up to Dumbledore and, after disarming him, stepped aside for someone else to finish him off. I told you he was not ready, my lord. He is too green to be able to turn red with blood. He has led a sheltered life. But I do not think he is a lost cause. Give him another year, one away from his little friends. He will brown with time, and will then be able to carry the red. He will learn, or die trying."

Voldemort squinted suspiciously at Snape for a long moment. Draco felt bile rise in his throat, but he pushed it back down. He couldn't vomit here in the Dark Lord's presence. His hands clutched each other in a desperate attempt to control himself. He held on like they were his last line to reality, to life, and to happiness. He couldn't let go for fear of losing himself. His fingers were going numb, but he didn't care. He was past caring. Draco looked up when he heard movement. Voldemort nodded at Snape.

"Yes…" he hissed, "the boy will make a good Death Eater. He has potential, but he is young. I was a fool to think he would overcome his age. Planning is his strong suit, I understand that. Yet, he cannot follow orders if he cannot inflict pain on others. And I was a fool for thinking that he could do that without feeling pain himself. The boy must learn, or his actions with lead to my… discontentment. Maybe even to the point where the only way to redeem himself is to die." Voldemort paused, looking down at the quivering mass before him. "Rise Draco." Doing as he was told, Draco's eyes never left the ground. His hands were still clutched together, though it only looked like he was paying respect to Voldemort, and his breath was ragged and forced. Draco's tongue was pressed painfully into the roof of his mouth to keep him from vomiting.

"_Crucio_!"

Draco fell, daggers cutting him, the sharp, raw pain enveloping him. It lasted for an eternity, stretching as if the fabric of time was pulled taut to the point of breaking, with nothing but the stings. He screamed, but he couldn't hear anything and his throat went raw. He was lost in a world of pain.

Draco woke and wrenched the covers off of him. He ran through the dark hall, through the silent rooms. He ran past the emotionless paintings, past the cold statues, past the dark décor.

Draco ran, not caring about anything. He didn't care that he didn't have shoes, or that he only wore pajama bottoms. He didn't care that it was just now dawning, and he should have been in bed like everyone else. He didn't care that his muscles were protesting and that it was hard to breath. When he wrenched the door open, he didn't care that he wasn't allowed to leave the Manor. When he stumbled through the forest, he didn't care that his foot had begun to bleed and the stiff twigs and sharp grasses had lacerated his legs. When he fell onto the jagged rocks, he didn't care that he was bruised and cut.

He ran until he couldn't run anymore. Draco ran to get away from his prison, to get away from his nightmare, to get away from his worries. Draco ran to get away from his life.

He fell on some rocks near a gentle stream on the edge of a clearing. He lay there, not wanting to move, not wanting to feel. For an hour, he didn't move. The rocks pressed uncomfortably into his soft flesh, but he didn't move.

Eventually, he sat up and leaned against a strong oak tree. He rested his head back and hugged his legs up to his chest. He stared straight ahead, yet didn't see anything. He looked inside himself instead.

Why had this happened to him? Why was he plagued with nightmares? If blood was everything, then why was he, the pureblood, so unhappy when Granger, the mudblood, was so happy? Why was she so much better than him at everything? And why was his life so different from the Weasleys? They were supposed to be traitors, yet they had a much better life than his family. They were poor, but so very happy. Maybe blood and money wasn't everything.

Draco didn't move that day, yet his perceptions changed. Lord Voldemort wasn't right. Although he hated it, Draco knew that Potter was correct. People deserved to live, and they were worth something. Blood wasn't everything.

Only when it started to get dark did Draco notice the time. He should get back to the house before anyone thought to look for him. Not that they would be worried enough to come looking for him.

He slowly picked himself up, his muscles protesting every movement. The bottom of his foot was caked in mud and dried blood, and his legs had a plethora of bruises and razor-thin cuts. There was a patch of raw skin on his cheek from the rocks. His pajamas were ripped and caked in dried mud.

He slowly walked back to the dark manor that crouched on the edge of the forest. He slid into the house and silently made his way up to his room. He took a shower and bandaged his foot before dressing and going downstairs.

His mother was finishing her meal when Draco walked in.

"Oh, dear! The House-Elf told me you felt ill and wouldn't be coming to dinner. Are you feeling better now?" she said, faking a caring voice.

"Yes, mother. I feel much better," he said.

As he sat down, he realized that he wasn't lying to her for once. The house elf brought him his first course, and Draco found that he was quite famished. As Draco picked up his fork, his mother put hers down and left him to eat alone.


	4. The Offer

The Offer-

Eons past as Draco screamed, twisting and contorting his body in pain from Lord Voldemort's crucio curse. He tried to escape from the hot knifes plunging into him and the terrible burning that followed the stabs. It was the first time he had felt the curse and certainly the first time he had felt such sting. For that reason, it was a hundred times worse both mentally and physically.

Lord Voldemort callously looked down at the thrashing form at his feet. He felt no pity, no sympathy, and clearly no qualms about the pain he was causing. Instead, he found pleasure in the power and music from the shrieks. After a moment, which felt so much longer, he lifted the curse.

Draco's body lay on the hard ground still flinching and quivering, still feeling the lingering pain. Draco struggled to find his breath. He wanted to vomit but knew he couldn't. He struggled to bury his true feelings and compose himself. Slow seconds turned into enduring minutes as he rearranged himself into something acceptable.

Finally, he pressed his cold, sweaty hands into the dirt and lifted his mud-streaked head off the ground. Rounding his shoulders and biting his tongue to hold back the pain, he jerkily stood up. Facing the Dark Lord, he slowly bowed. Gasping from his aching muscles, he kept his eyes downcast as he walked back in front of Voldemort, waiting for his command.

The Dark Lord sat on his thrown, waiting for the words that were not forthcoming. He had expected pleas of mercy, or exclamations of loyalty, not this stony silence. Squinting at Draco, he thought over his fate.

"Why, young Malfoy, should I let you live?" Voldemort hissed. "What would you offer me?"

Draco hesitated, frantically thinking, then swallowed hard and replied in the same even, unemotional tone he had heard Snape use before him. "My life is in your hands. I cannot stop you if you think I am useless, and I would not try even if I could. Say the word, and I am dead.

"But I think I have more to offer you in life than I would in death. In death, you might gain control over my parents, but they have already willingly given you their lives. You could make me an example for other people who dare to fail you, but there are better people for that job, and most people wouldn't care enough to be effected by my untimely demise.

"In life, I can offer you anything you require. I can spy for you, I can get you information, and I can get you people. Many young people from Hogwarts would follow me to you if I asked them to, so that you can replenish the Death Eaters and breed a new generation. I can also get you older people that are more experienced. It is a simple matter of gaining their confidence after carefully persuading them with money, titles, and favors. My family name is still relatively good in society, and we have money and connections. Also, I offer you my mind when it comes to planning. I can organize any fight, implantation, or kidnap.

"Let me prove myself in the ways I can. I failed you when I was unable to kill, but I found a way to get the others in so that the murder would still happen. Let me play to my strengths, not my weaknesses. If you let me live, I can offer you a lot more for a longer period of time than if you kill me." And with that Draco bowed low to the Lord, and prayed that he had made his case.

Voldemort mulled Draco's words over and made up his mind.

"You deserve to die, boy," he hissed with venom. "But I will let you live. You will not fail me again. Be grateful; you are very lucky. Most would die for that blunder, yet you made a point in saying that you would serve me better alive.

"But remember that I expect all my orders to be carried out. Playing to your strengths or not, your job is to obey, not to delegate."

Voldemort laughed, sending shivers down Draco's back. "But you are very naïve. Do you expect me to give you a new job so soon after you mistake? Do you think I will give you an important job when you have yet to prove yourself worthy? I may use you later, but for now you will stay with your mother. Do not leave the manor without my permission, boy, or I will give you what you deserve."

Draco bowed again. A pause stretched where no one moved or said anything. Not sure what he was supposed to do, Draco began to back out of the Dark Lord's presence. Voldemort's face clouded and distorted in rage, and he narrowed his eyes in disgust.

"I didn't dismiss you," he said threateningly. Draco froze in horror, but it was too late. The damage was done.

"_Crucio_!"

The next day started out like any other day. Draco rose early, kept away from his mother, and passed the time away by reading some spell book or another.

Finished with the book, Draco turned to go return it to the library and get some lunch. Suddenly there was a sound that jarred him, and crashed through his mind, uncomfortably vibrating in his ears. The sound was so foreign that it took a minute to place what it was. It was the doorbell.

Since that horrid night, there had been only one visitor to the Malfoy Manor. It had been Snape, coming on orders of Lord Voldemort. He had come long enough to make sure they were safe and that Draco was still there, then after a few rushed words with his mother in one of the drawing rooms, Snape disappeared from their lives like everyone else. Draco hadn't realized that he was so used to the quiet until the doorbell had interrupted the silence.

After almost two months without contact to the outside world, Draco found himself running down the halls and stairways to see the person who had now come like a little child runs down to find presents under the tree on Christmas. While he had always prided himself at being independent, Draco now found himself longing for human contact. He needed someone to show him that life did go on, that things were happening, that he wasn't adrift on an empty ocean but rather hidden behind a screen on the edge of an enormous party.

But when he saw who had come, he stopped dead in his tracks on the landing of the grand staircase. Below him, his mother was pleasantly greeting Fenrir Greyback. Greyback had dark, bulky robes on and held a package in one grotesque fist. His face had a permanent sneer on it and he only grunted at Narcissa Malfoy.

"Why don't we go into the drawing room, Fenrir," Narcissa said. "Do you want anything to drink?" As courteous as she was trying to be, she still looked timid and scared. Her eyes darted around like a mouse looks for an escape from a cat. In return, Fenrir Greyback didn't pay any attention to her.

"Where is the boy?" he growled.

"Umm… up…up there," she sputtered pointing to Draco. Not wanting to have the werewolf think he was scared, or had been spying, Draco tried to look confident as he slowly walked down the rest of the way to the entrance hall. He walked around Fenir so that he protectively stood slightly in front of his mother.

Keeping the uncertainty and fear out of his voice, Draco smoothly inquired, "Were you looking for me?"

Greyback sized Draco up with narrow eyes before disdainfully replying. "You are needed."

Draco's brow gracefully furrowed and he tilted his head as if to question Greyback, but he didn't say anything.

He continued evenly, "The Dark Lord has given me the assignment to attack Diagon Alley. He has graciously let me pick the people I want to join me, but he has requested that you be involve to … test you again. Do you understand?"

"Fully." Draco was having trouble breathing again, and blood rushed to his head. He felt himself go cold at Greyback's words, yet nothing he said or did betrayed his true thoughts to Fenrir.

After a moment of glaring at Draco, Fenrir Greyback said, "I will treat you as anyone else. Don't cross me, or you will feel the consequences. Follow all orders to the letter, or you will be punished. We will see if you make a … competent … Death Eater.

"We go in eight days. I will arrange it so that the Order of the Phoenix is trapped. They are weak and leaderless. We shall finally see how much they relied on that fool, Dumbledore. They haven't fought us since his death, probably because they are afraid we will kill them all. We will surely find them incompetent and chaotic. We will be meeting here before we go at one o'clock. Do you understand?" Draco nodded pensively.

Fenrir threw the package on the cold floor at Draco's feet. "Your mask and robe," he said gruffly as a way of curtailing the Malfoy's questions.

Greyback was about to turn to leave when Draco stopped him.

"Who is the Order's leader now?"

Greyback stood still, looking at the polished marble floor as if he could see the answer there. His profile was to Draco, so he was able to see the emotions playing on his face. After a second of stony silence, Fenir face slowly arranged itself into a menacing scowl before he answered. Still facing the floor, he pronounced one word after swishing it around in his mouth like a sour wine.

"Potter."

The word was said with disapproval, with disgust, with admiration, and with loath. It was said as a taunt, as an insult, as a fact. Through it Fenrir transferred his disbelief, his hurt, his pain, his hatred. Yet there was also a quality of respect, of humor, of understanding. Using that one simple word, he was able to convey all his thoughts on the matter.

Fenrir Greyback quickly turned and strode out of the manor leaving Draco and his mother to their own thoughts.

Narcissa shakily made her way to a bench beside Draco. Although it was only a few steps away, she felt so weak that she almost didn't make it before collapsing like a beaten old woman. Her limbs lay limp by her sides, her head rested against the wall, and her eyes closed as if to hide the pain and suffering.

Draco stood still, staring at the same spot on the floor that has so held Fenrir Greyback's eyes. He felt like he was floating in a sea of unrest, his head was light and he couldn't feel his limbs. Images flooded his brain, so that he couldn't see the blurred ground in front of him. If he had thought he was dead before, he was now being led to hell to be damned.

They would expect him to fight, maybe even kill. They would see that he couldn't do it, and he would be led for judgment. Lord Voldemort had already warned him about failing again. If he failed this test someone would have to die.

Draco sunk to the ground. He hadn't sat on the smooth marble since he was a small child. The warm, hard stone was strangely comforting. It was as if he had been transferred back to a time when he was still innocent and his biggest worry was getting in trouble with his father. Yet now, instead of pouting about his punishment or his latest disappointment, he was in shock over how he was going to die, and what he was being asked to do. He knew that the doorbell would shake his life up, but he hadn't thought that it would be like this. He hadn't thought that his entire life would end up like this.

His mother sobbed softly beside him. He didn't look up, or try to comfort her. Draco couldn't console anyone when he was the one who desperately needed to be reassured himself. Afternoon slipped into night as the Malfoys sat in the entrance hall, lost in their own thoughts.


	5. Motherly Love

Motherly Love-

The next day was the same as any other. After a restless night, Draco amused himself as best as he could to distract his agitated mind from wandering to the terrible events that had happened and the horror of what he would be doing in a week. At dinner that night, his mother pretended that nothing had happened. She acted like she didn't remember the visitor, or the message he brought, and she certainly didn't let on that she had broke down and cried.

After the quiet, formal dinner, Draco slowly walked up to his room. He didn't understand it; why was his mother like this? What had happened to her that she thought she had to act like this around him? He was confused at her reactions. It was like the last time he had received a mission. She had let down her barriers, she had cried, she had acted like a real mother. But then she went back to the familiar formality. She buried her emotions, and acted like she had never shown them. He had never heard her say anything motherly to him, yet she mourned when he was sentenced to impossible missions.

He slammed his door, strode over to his bookshelf, and started to wreck his room. Why was his mother like that? What had he done wrong? Why was his life so messed up? Rage welled inside of him, and he tried to release it through the things he threw. Books hit the walls, spilling open on the floor. Papers fluttered in the air as they fell toward the ground. Pillows, pens, and clothes now littered the bedroom. Draco tore open his closet and roughly emptied it of its contents. He knocked the chair down, and pushed the bedside table over. Draco let out a bloodcurdling roar, filled with his suffering and desperation.

Tears started to spill out of his eyes, and he slowly sunk to the ground. Surrounded by the things he had thrown, he sat on his cold floor and cried. The tears he had held back for so long ran unchecked down his pale face. Draco cried for his current situation, for the people who were sure to die, for the victims of the war, for the innocent lives taken, for the nightmares that plagued him, for the loss of freedom, for the burdens he was forced to bear. He cried for the way his life had become. He cried for the past, which couldn't be undone. The hot tears burned his eyes, yet relieved him of the stress and sadness he had carried with him for so long.

Draco's hands grasped at the things close to him. He grabbed a pillow and punched it. As angry has he had been, the feeling was leaving him with his tears. He smoothed the soft fabric over and over, petting it to do something. He put it on the ground and laid his head down upon it. His thumb continued to stroke it. The tears still fell unimpeded, and his eyes begun to sting. His vision was blurred from the moisture. Draco slowly began to slip into a gentle sleep. That night was the first time in a little over two months that Draco slept through the night without the terrifying nightmares.

In the morning, Draco found himself in his bed. His eyes were dry and scratchy, but overall he felt better than he had in years. The pressure that had pressed down upon him mentally was lifted. He had lived with it for so long that the light, relaxed feeling was very foreign and fresh. He stretched his stiff muscles and closed his eyes again. It felt good just to lie there.

But then his face clouded. He remembered what he was supposed to do in six days. How was he going to be able to fight? He turned over as if it would help him find the answer. Instead, another question ran through his groggy mind. How did he get here? He sat up and looked around. His room was clean, everything back in its original places, and neater than how they had been before.

He got out of bed. Draco walked to the table and picked up the heavy vase that sat there. He had thrown it at the wall, and had watched the pieces splinter and scatter. Now it was back together. He traced his fingers along the delicate web of cracks. Someone had found all the tiny pieces and meticulously glued them back together. The vase had been entirely black. The white glue gave the vase a marble stone look. It looked like the ceramic urn was made out of a dark stone with natural veins of white. Draco admired it; it looked better than before.

It reminded him of his own life. He had been whole at one point. He had been full of life, although a bit dark. His life was given to someone else, and they had destroyed him. His life had shattered when he had come upon the obstacle of killing. He was left, broken into pieces, not sure what to do. He had spilt the life inside of him. But he had hope. Like the vase, he hoped someone would come help him. He hoped that his life could be pieced back together, and that he could be whole and full again. Draco wished that he could be like the vase, where the hurt became part of him and made him better.

Draco replaced the vase and turned his attention to the books. Running his had along the smooth covers, pausing once in awhile to slide his finger down a familiar title, he remembered the contents of each book. After a moment of hesitation and a quick decision, he rapidly pulled out book after book. He pasted over the stories and spell books, and tore down all the books dealing with the dark arts. He stacked them and picked them up. With some difficulty, he was able to get down the stairs and placed them on a polished table in the library. The house elf would find where they belong. He ran his hand along the books looking for the titles he wanted. He picked out book after book on defense, charms, transfiguration, and history. He gathered these, along with a potions book, and carried the stack back up to his room. He replaced the gaping holes on his bookshelf with the new books. Satisfied with his choice, he reached for a defense book.

The day was spent pouring over the new books, learning new spells, and trying to transform his way of thinking. He didn't want to be on Lord Voldemort's side anymore. He wanted out of the dark, out of the pain, out of the fear. He wanted to make his own decisions, his own choices, and that meant leaving the Death Eaters and becoming neutral. It would take awhile, and will be very dangerous, but he had made up his mind. He couldn't live like this, if you could call it living. He couldn't be a Death Eater like everyone expected him to be. He couldn't kill, and he couldn't torture. He just wasn't cut out to do it. He couldn't join the Order either though, which meant that he would have to protect himself. First, he would learn how to do that. Then he would worry about getting out. A smile crept onto Draco's face. He was in control again.

"_Crucio!_"

Draco writhed in pain. He screamed, but couldn't hear anything. He tried to escape, but it only made it worse. Draco was lost in a world of suffering, with no past, no future, and no time. There was no sound, no sight, and no sensations except the pain. Every nerve in his body screamed, but he could do nothing. What seemed like ages later, he was roughly cast from that cold world and thrust back into reality. Draco was beaten mentally and physically. The pain lingered in his body, but it scarred his mind.

He stayed on the ground. He was sure that his clothes were ruined, and his sweat was mixing with the dirt. But he didn't try to get up. He was past caring about his appearance. Draco knew he didn't have the strength to get up by himself, so he didn't waste what little energy he had left.

Voldemort looked down at Draco. He sneered and hissed, "This is what happens when you don't obey me. The bigger the mistake, the bigger the punishment. Remember that, and maybe you will live to see your birthday." He paused, soaking in the pleasure of causing Draco pain. He turned to the Death Eaters behind Draco. "Take his away!"

Draco was roughly grabbed and the many hands clutching at his robes and flesh pulled him up and dragged him out of the Dark Lord's presence. When they were far enough away, they released him. Draco fell to the ground, barely catching himself. He breathed heavily, trying to regain his strength and vision without vomiting. By the time he was able to move his head to look around, the others had left him. One lone person remained. Taking off her mask, Narcissa Malfoy looked down at her only son with disgust. She pinched his arm to lift him up and pushed him against a nearby tree as though she had just touched something repulsive.

"You failed! You miserable little boy, you failed the first thing that was asked of you!" she spat the words at him with such contempt that he flinched at each powerful word she threw at him. Her arms flailed around as if she were about to explode, coming dangerously close to Draco's face. She ranted about power, pride and honor. She yelled about respect and responsibility. She told him about the trouble she had gone through to try to help him, and how it disappointed her that he would not let Snape help him, even after she, his mother, had talked Snape into it.

"You don't control your own life, just as you can't control your destiny. You can only follow and obey, which can improve you life, but it won't change it. There is nothing you can do, nothing anyone can do. Give up, Draco! There is no freedom. There never was; it's only an illusion, a pretty dream people like to think they have. You don't have any choices; choices don't exist. You will die if you try to follow anything other than the world. If you want to survive in this world, you must stop following your own mind and obey others. That is the only way! Do you understand the words coming out of my mouth, or am I talking to a brick wall, Draco?"

He hung his head and nodded. Her speech had crushed him more than Lord Voldemort's.


	6. It Begins

It Begins-

Draco sat up in bed and looked at the clock. It was one in the morning. He let his taut muscles sink as he slumped over his knees. It was the day of the attack on Diagon Alley. It was the day that he would die for his weakness. Tears squeezed themselves out of Draco's tightly closed eyes, but he hurriedly pushed them away. He couldn't cry today.

Blinking furiously, he looked about his room. Would this be the last night he would ever sleep here? It had changed over the last week. The dark pictures and books had been replaced, and the skull head that had been a fixture in his room was replaced by a vase of flowers. He had purged his room of all of the dark artifacts and had moved them to the next room. If he died, this is what the Death Eaters would find. Even if he was just taken away, he could be killed for some of the things now in his room and for the absence of other things.

Draco threw himself back down. He was sinking back into the darkness, back into the nightmares, back to the anxiety of last year's task. It didn't matter, none of that mattered. He closed his eyes and tossed to get into a more comfortable position that had no ties to his current thoughts, trying to get back to sleep. He would have to be well rested and cunning to get out of his fate.

After a restless night, Draco got up with the sun and picked up a random book to drown out his unwanted thoughts. At 11 o'clock Draco set down his book and got ready for the day, and by 12:30, others had started to arrive. Fenrir Greyback showed up at 12:50, and gathered the roaming men. He quickly briefed them of the plan.

"Now, we know that there should not be a lot of people," he growled, "but we were informed that Potter and his little friends will be shopping today. We hope to give them a … present." Fenrir's lips curled in an attempt to smile. The men crudely guffawed, elbowing each other, as though they were the only ones that got the joke. Draco sneered, as did two other well-dressed Death Eaters. And he was supposed to associate with these barbarians?

After a pause to let the noise die down, Fenrir continued. "We will be apparating in front of the Weasley Wizard Wheezes. The owners are Order members, and are part of Potter's little circle, so we must destroy the store, and hopefully catch everyone in there. Potter will, of course, spend more time there than in the other shops, so we have a better chance at … meeting him. I want us to be spread out as much as possible so that they can't escape. Kill everyone and anyone you see." He raised his right fist and punched the air. "No pity! No mercy! No forgiveness! No muggles!"

The Death Eaters went crazy. They stamped their feet, waved their fists, and yell incoherent words. On each of their faces was etched a frightful frown, and they bared their teeth menacingly. They wanted blood; they wanted battle.

The only people that didn't participate were the two arrogant Death Eaters and Draco. All three stood against the wall, sneering at their cheering comrades. They were soon lost in the crowd of the surging Death Eaters who were calling for the killing to begin.

The dark, masked group quickly and efficiently disapparated to the assigned area in Diagon Alley. It briefly amazed Draco how the crude, coarse and, in his mind, barely intelligent men were able to move like a well oiled machine, until he remembered that they probably attacked places at least once a week. That thought shot down through his body as a silent shiver, chilling and sickening him as it traveled; yet he pushed down his thoughts so that he could deal with the situation at hand.

The streets that he had always remembered as being crowded and bustling was now an empty shell of their former glory. The place was dirty, with old boxes and papers strewn about, and it smelled like the trash that had taken over the gutters. Most of the stores that had before proudly shown their bright, exciting wares now were boarded up with scraps of wood, and the windows were covered with cardboard.

The few people were quickly moving from one shop to the next with bowed heads and hunched shoulders. They moved with the fear and burden of the war on their backs. Instead of the laughter and chatter of his happy childhood, Draco now only heard soft, anxious whispers, and the quiet patter of their shoes hitting the hard cobblestones, resounding in his chest. Like Draco himself, one moment the streets had been joyful and carefree, and the next they held danger and fear in their heart.

The scene only lasted a second, yet the image was branded in his mind. The reality of the war was put into a worldly sense for him. It jolted him to realize that the war wasn't all the individuals fighting, but the common and neutral people everywhere that suffered because of it.

Then Fenrir appeared in the middle of the street, signaling the Death Eaters with a wave of his hand, and the battle began. With bloodcurdling screams, Death Eaters ran out of their hiding places, wands raised and eyes wildly searching for a victim. The brave women and children who had come to try to shop now were paying the price. People ran to find safety and family, and terrified screams were everywhere. Spells flew, directed at no one, and boxes shattered into sharp shards.

Draco watched like a ghost as a young girl, no more than four years old, tried to flee. She had no idea where to go, and, confused, she kept on stopping and turning around. The girl ran one way, yelled for her mother, and ran the other way. Tears streamed down her little face, and her arms swung wildly around her, trying to find something or someone to hold on to. She tripped over a shattered crate, and fell onto her hands and knees. She slowly got up, looking at herself, her tears forgotten. Draco was appalled to see that her palms and knees were lacerated and her young red blood lazily flowed onto her rosy skin. She let out a frightened scream and tried to run again but stumbled uncertainly to one side. The spectacle caught the attention of a Death Eater near by. He turned toward her, smiled crookedly, and raised his wand. As if time had slowed down, Draco watched as the Death Eater opened his mouth revealing a row of yellowing teeth. A bright purple spell exploded out of the end of his long, grimy wand, and hit the little girl squarely in her chest. A look of sheer pain and fear overtook her tiny innocent face. Her hands clenched the empty air as she fell awkwardly to her side.

Just beyond the girl's body, Draco saw that the Order of the Phoenix members had begun to arrive. They were too late, much too late, to save the scared, naïve girl. He bitterly saw them attack his worthless colleagues. The brute that had savagely murdered the girl fell to an old auror in a brilliant flash of red, causing Draco to sardonically laugh at the irony. An eye for an eye; the last shall be first; there is always a bigger fish in the pond.

The battle had moved away from Draco, and he reluctantly realized that he too must join the fight, so as not to raise suspicion on either side. He quietly stole out of his hiding spot and dodged past spells to reach the ranks of Death Eaters. But on his way he couldn't help but stray by the motionless child.

He gazed down at her tear-streaked and still rosy cheeks, and at her half-closed, glazed, liquid blue eyes. He pushed a stray lock of rich brown hair off of her smooth face, and burned her image into his memory. She was the reason to stop fighting, the reason he could continue. Draco felt his eyes sting with tears. She had deserved to live, and he was determined to make sure no one else died like her.

He glanced at her one last time before he stood up to the others. As he evaded spells, all Draco could see is the innocent girl's terrified face as she died. Although he didn't know her, and didn't even know her name, she embodied every guiltless person that was killed in this horrid war. She was the one who finally showed him the truth of war. She was the face of the naïve children who were massacred at every attack. She was the leader of the murdered people who didn't have to die, that didn't have a part in this conflict other than that fact that they were like lambs to be slaughtered.

Draco's blood seemed to boil, running hot through his pulsing veins. They all deserved to live. That girl could have invented a new spell that cures a deadly poison. This little boy could have grown up to be the greatest quidditch player the wizarding world had ever known. That young woman could have saved a group of young children from a rogue dragon. That man could have been the next prime minister.

Thoughts swirled in his head of all the possibilities if the people hadn't died. To him, death had been a theory, a topic to think about, a useful thing to weed out the weak and old. It had never been a reality to him. Not even seeing Dumbledore's death had seemed real to Draco. Yet here he stood, surrounded by the bodies and souls of innocent people that were in the wrong place at the wrong time. A cool wind chilled him, finally bringing understanding in its wake.

Draco stood frozen, staring at the empty shells that used to house living, breathing people. Lost in his thoughts and encircled by his ghosts, he was jarred back into reality when an orange spell grazed his ear. Shaking his head, he reluctantly returned to the present. He had to fight; he had to stay focused. But now he had a purpose, and a new reason to live.


	7. Battle Scars

Battle Scars-

Hearts pound continually, an average of 2.5 billion times in a life. Smoothly forcing the blood to circulate through 100,000 miles of arteries, veins, and capillaries, all of the blood in a human body moves through the small muscular heart. When the heart beats too fast it pounds on the ribcage, the strong organ pushing harder than it was ever meant to, threatening to injure the body it supports.

All around Draco, hearts screamed out, pushing against their bony jail bars. Hearts thumped loudly, as if in fear of being forgotten. Hearts gave out before their time, and hearts pounded more than they should have. The organs suddenly stopped, quickening their killer's own rhythm. Blood circulated through each living body, running quickly through each mile, bringing oxygen and adrenaline to each throbbing cell. Every time a heart was ruined, the blood sluggishly came to a standstill, causing the pained cells to slow down and finally die. Hearts pounded in every chest, filling Draco's ears with their fearful sound.

The battle continued unnoticed as Draco listened to this unearthly song of life and death. His wand was loosely held in his right hand, and both arms were resting at his side. So many bodies were sprawled on the cobblestones, and so many more people were fighting, willing to join the army of the dead.

He walked slowly toward the line of wizards. As he neared, a member of the Order took out a Death Eater and wildly scanned the battle for his next victim. The man was young, no more than 30, with long, shocking red hair, a scarred face, and a fang hanging from his ear. The hair immediately gave him away as a Weasley, although Draco did not recognize the ruined visage.

His eyes rested on Draco, and he ran forward, throwing a stunning spell at him. Draco lazily shielded, and dropped his arm again. The man sent another spell, then another. Each time, Draco simply protected himself, never once fighting back. The man's eyes, once burning with anger and hatred, began to lose their intensity, and his brow wrinkled into a confused frown. Someone shouted; the Weasley boy cocked his head, stared intensely at Draco, then turned and left.

Draco let out the breath he had been holding. He closed his eyes for a second, and then turned a little as he opened them, preparing himself for another fight. Staring back at him were smoldering, dark eyes. Blinking rapidly, Draco took in the spiky, pink hair and the heart-shaped face. He was finally face-to-face with his cousin.

He opened his mouth to say something, anything, but she quickly sent a spell flying toward him and he was forced to block it. Nymphadora Tonks frowned, and fired another spell. Draco blocked this one too, and the next two. Her eyes narrowed suspiciously, but her brow was knitted in confusion.

When Draco leapt out of the way, letting a purple spell hit the ground, she whipped her arms at him. "Why aren't you fighting?!" she yelled, thinking he was just toying with her. Instead, Draco used the pause to walk away. Tonks's mouth hung open as she watched Draco's back. When he was almost out of earshot, she recovered. "I'm watching you! I swear to Merlin, I'm going to watch your every move!" she screamed. Draco stopped and lazily turned his head. He stared at her, and then nodded, letting the corner of his mouth briefly twitch, barely moving yet enough that his cousin could notice. He turned and continued to walk, leaving his perplexed cousin to shift through all that had happened.

Draco walked along the frontline, watching other people fight their selected opponent and, in many cases, their doom. He recognized many of the fighters from both sides, and it sent pangs through his body. He saw old classmates and family friends being mowed down by the ruthless followers of the Dark Lord. Bodies were scattered and people were jumping over them nonchalantly as they tried to defeat just one more person, just live a few more seconds, just a bit more, just a little bit more.

A growl alerted Draco that he was nearing Fenrir Greyback. Everyone knew that the werewolf lived on fighting and killing. His life's goal was to infect as many children and kill as many people as possible in payment for the misery he had been put through. Everyone realized this, yet most people don't think about exactly how he fights, how he kills, and how he achieves his goal. Draco, even with all the years of knowing Fenrir, couldn't help but become frightened and mesmerized.

Fenrir did not fight with a wand, nor did he have muggle weapons. Instead, he relied on the natural weapons his kind was gifted with. His red nails cut into flesh as easily as daggers, spraying blood everywhere. Entwining his fingers in his victim's hair, he held her close to calm her thrashing and pulled her head back to display her delicate neck. He ignored her useless screams and pushed aside her flailing arms. Baring his teeth, he growled again before he lowered his head and tore out her jugular. When he was finished, he threw her mangled body aside and wildly searched for his next prey. His hair was matted, and the blood of all his victims mingled, staining his own pearly skin and dripping down his face. Letting out a loud howl, he turned and ran at the nearest man, who had his back to Fenrir. Draco could do nothing as he watched Fenrir savagely slaughter the unknown man.

Draco backed up slowly, his eyes reluctant to leave the two distorted bodies. Someone sent a spell flying at him, but he turned around and deflected it with a flick of his wrist. A second spell came closer and managed to wake him of his reverie, and his head swung as he tried to orientate himself. The line had moved back; the Death Eaters were losing. He continued to walk although his eyes were fixed on the battle. Falling over some of the first dead, Draco found himself lying on the ground looking at glazed eyes that will never see again, surrounded by hearts that will never beat again.

Draco's mind was in shock. He sat looking at the white faces, the bodies splattered with dark blood, and the eyes frightfully blank. His head slowly shook, swinging gently back and forth, as if denying what he saw. Frantically trying to get up, to get away, he found himself tripping again. His feet slid and skidded as he half-crawled, half-ran as fast as he could, his hands scraping the ground in an attempt to right himself. Disorientated, confused, and distressed, Draco fell again and stopped. He saw the dead standing before him, dancing around him, asking him why he had killed them. Moaning, he squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head. Counting to ten, Draco regained his breath and opened his eyes. The dead were as they should have been, and the street was quiet around him.

Breathing heavily, he turned and looked at the child that had so captured him only a short time before. The little girl, who had been one of the first to die, the one he had watched, the one that had given him a reason, was lying exactly as he remembered. Her hair was sprayed out behind her tiny head. Her cheeks were still rosy, and the lips were slightly parted in her scream. Her eyes were closed, and everything was as he had left it.

But no, it wasn't the same. Her hand was closed in a tight fist around a bloody wood splinter, and Draco thought he saw her chest move. Maybe it was his imagination playing tricks on him. He had just seen the dead people dance so he knew his brain wasn't completely right. He was just hoping, and he would be disappointed. He was in shock; he just didn't remember the fist; that minute shudder was too small to be real.

Yet there is was again. He put his hand on her stomach and felt her chest rise a bit, indefinitely small, barely visible. Her head turned the slightest bit toward him. Draco almost missed it, yet the motion sent a lock of brown hair sliding.

The little girl was miraculously, undeniably alive.

Draco gulped the air, wildly looking around. He had to find someone to help her. He had to make sure she lived. Still crouching on the cobblestones, Draco fretfully cleared some of the debris buying himself time to think.

He had never run in to a situation like this, and he had no idea what to do. He defiantly pushed the rest of the splinters out of his way. He bent down over her to make sure she really was breathing, and then he carefully pulled her to him. Cradling the child's weak body, Draco took one last frantic look around him. He saw that the Order of the Phoenix had pushed the Death Eaters back, and by the look of it the battle was almost over. Bodies were scattered on the once-happy streets and rich blood was splattered on the clean cobblestones. After a few ragged breaths, Draco finally saw a Death Eater turn and run a few feet before apparating. The fighting was over; he could safely leave.

Holding on to the girl for dear life, Draco lowered his head and closed his eyes. He wanted to forget about this day. He wanted to forget about the countless deaths. He wanted to be free of this wretched pain and misery. He let out a quiet sob, and then steeled himself. He had to be strong. He had to survive. He took a large gulp of air and pushed back the tears and memories.

Before another thought could enter his mind, Draco apparated to his bedroom in his own safe prison, Malfoy Manor.


	8. Repercussions and Proposals

8- Repercussions and Proposals

Draco appeared in his dark room. It was the same as before he had left to fight. It was eerie to see his things exactly the same when he himself had been violently changed so much. It had only been an hour, but he felt as if he was living a new life.

He put the little girl on the floor and opened the door. He carefully looked down the corridor, making sure the coast was clear. He needn't have done that; no one ever came into his wing of the house.

Draco picked up the girl, who softly murmured and rolled her head. He ran across the hallway into another bedroom. It hadn't been used in decades at least, and it was bare except the big bed crouching in the dark corner and the heavy drapes blocking the sun. Draco gently placed her on the bed and backed away.

He was unsure of what to do next. Sure, they had covered some simply healing spells at Hogwarts, but he wasn't sure what to use. He wasn't even sure what spell had hit her. After a tense moment, Draco cleaned the girl's wounds and healed her scrapes. Biting his lip, he took one last look before locking the door behind him.

Breathing deeply, he went downstairs. Draco found the Death Eaters in the same room as before, though the aura was very different. Instead of ruthless, confident men eager for blood and recognition the Death Eaters now seemed to be a dejected group that were nursing their wounds and simmering with anger at themselves and at their fellow companions for the complete loss at Diagon Alley.

They had killed a lot of civilians, but very few Order members had been disposed of. On the other hand, the Order members had taken almost half of them. It was quite evident that the Order of the Phoenix hadn't suffered much from Dumbledore's death. Instead, it seemed that they were more determined and, to a point, more battle-ready. All the Death Eaters cursed the new leader of the Order, for Harry Potter had commanded the situation and his fighting skills had taken down many men.

Fenrir Greyback appeared in the front of the room. He was fearful to behold; his bared teeth and flaying arms gave him an image of manic rage, completed by his red nails, robe covered in stains, and his mouth dripping with blood. Unable to speak, he howled and screamed, waving his fists at one Death Eater then another. His wide eyes swiveled in his eye sockets, rolling up to reveal the whites before focusing on the men.

The Death Eaters shrunk back, flinching every time him arms and eyes came their way. Shivering and looking nervously at one another, the Death Eaters silently waited for Fenrir Greyback to calm down.

After a moment, Fenrir closed his eyes and dropped his arms. He breathed deeply, rolled his neck, and unclenched his fists. He opened his eyes and looked around once more. Although he still glared, the fire in his eyes had burned down to embers.

He growled. "We have failed the Dark Lord! You have _failed_! We will be punished: me for arraigning this monstrosity, and you for letting the Order win." His deep voice rumbled with each quiet, passionate word. He looked around again.

"You all make me sick. Your weakness, your fear, your inability to fight when faced with death. You are not Death Eaters. You are not really even men. You are pawns to be ordered around to help the king; you are beasts to be slaughtered in place of His few. You are given a simple task: kill as many people as possible before you are killed. Yet you selfishly try to save your own life, your own hide, your own mind, your own pride. Do you not understand? You own nothing! The Dark Lord owns you, you are not free and independent! Who do you think you are?

"He owns you, cares for you, feeds you. The Dark Lord helps you, trains you, accepts you. He expects you to repay Him by following Him loyally, and by fighting for Him. You are to give Him land, people, wealth, fame, and power. Yet when He needs a little bit more, you decide to rebel and not do as He bids.

"You aren't free and independent. You aren't entitled to any of that freedom-junk those self-absorbed, hypocritical, silly muggles shout. So stop acting as though you are! You must do as the Dark Lord wishes, without question! Do you understand?!"

Fenrir Greyback was panting by this point. The passion and conviction in his voice widened many eyes and his words cooled many hearts. Silence fell over the group as they thought over the speech.

Fenrir coughed. "Amycus, come here." The man wove his way through the crowd and joined the werewolf in the front of the room. "Take down everyone's name. I assume you still have the list from before the battle. Compare the two and tell me who is dead, who is captured, and who defected. I want those lists within two hours. Got it?" Amycus nodded his head and quickly pulled out his parchment. Fenrir turned around and scanned the room as the man beside him began to scribble furiously.

The old werewolf walked over to were Draco was standing. He roughly grabbed his arm and with a bloody smile said, "Time to present our performance review to our boss. Lets see if you pulled out a promotion." With that, he apparated them to a field outside a large stone castle.

Greyback strode quickly over to the entrance and pounded on the oak door. A small man appeared. His eyes were narrowed as he surveyed the men before him.

"I offer no hope of life, for the path is hard and dangerous."

"I travel not for myself, but for the glory of the Dark One."

The man nodded and let them in. Grabbing a torch, he led them down long and twisting corridors, down into the belly of the stone beast. He stopped in front of a pair of massive oak doors. He pointed to them with a flourish of the hand and a small bow then disappeared into the darkness.

Draco swallowed hard and tried to compose himself as Fenrir pushed open the doors. The werewolf attempted to stride in confidently, but even Draco could see is hesitation, and his fear was palpable.

In the middle of the far wall a fire crackled invitingly but the warmth didn't reach far. The icy air made Draco shiver, though he didn't know whether it was from the temperature or his nerves.

Sitting in a luxurious armchair, Lord Voldemort watched the two men cross the room. His eyes narrowed into slits and he frowned. He could tell they were bearers of bad news.

"Back ssso sssoon, Greyback? Thisss doesss not bode well, now doesss it?" Voldemort hissed, his thin lips pursed together so that only a small aperture let his words out. "Well?"

The werewolf, so fearless in battle, now shuffled his feet and his head dipped down towards the ground. His eyes darted nervously before he answered.

"We were…we were outnumbered…the Order…we didn't expect them…not that quickly…we didn't think…they would be there…like…like that…not that quickly." Fenrir Greyback swallowed and his eyes fluttered shut for a second. "We couldn't get there in time… they were ready for us somehow. I…I…" His voice trailed off as Voldemort raised his hand. Shadows seemed to grow on his face.

"You failed me."

"My Lord!" Greyback cried, but it was too late.

"_Crucio!_"

The werewolf's screams echoed in the large stone room. Draco closed his eyes and tried to close his mind. He didn't want to think; not here, not now.

The spell was lifted and the screams of pain stopped, but Fenrir did not get back up.

"Don't pay any attention to him." Lord Voldemort stared at Draco, trying to read his thoughts.

"I don't know how you did today, young Malfoy," the Dark Lord said in a warm, sweet voice, "so I can't make you a Death Eater yet. You need to complete a _successful_ mission, and that was a disaster. But come closer, my son." Draco's legs unwillingly moved forward, lurching toward a man he hated and feared. But Draco was curious enough to want to know what was going on. Lord Voldemort's thin lips stretched into a cold smile.

"You could be my heir, you have the potential, boy. I could train you in the old ways and the dark ways; I could take you away from your prison," Voldemort whispered. "I could give you _power_."

Draco said nothing as the Dark Lord scanned his expressionless face. The Lord looked into the boy's mind and coldly laughed.

"You are confused. You have shown me nothing, yet I offer you everything. I talk of an heir, yet I am immortal. Such contradictions, such trivial inconsistencies," Lord Voldemort said quietly, the honey-coated words replaced by those of a distant monarch. He gracefully stood up and began a slow promenade around the room. Draco's eyes followed him, but he did not move.

"You are powerful, my boy. I have seen it. All I need to do is train you how to use it. I offer you everything; all I ask for in return is your loyalty. That was a simple matter to clear up, wasn't it? Now, the more complicated one: why would I need an heir? I am immortal unless someone figures out how I did it. Yet I have a suspicion Dumbledore found out, and I am sure he told his precious Potter before he was killed. In fact, he might have left the school in search of one, although I doubt he found one, or that he actually got enough information to even begin to hunt for them. There is a prophecy that said Potter is the one that has the power to defeat me, and for that reason I have tried to hunt him down and kill him before he figures out how to harm me. Unfortunately, he was well protected and survived every attempt. Now, I fear that I will not be able to see the rise of my empire, and that my death will crush the cause I worked so hard to build up. You know what happened last time people thought I was dead. Thus, I must have someone to take my place if I should ever die. Do you understand now, young Malfoy?" The Dark Lord sighed softly and leaned on the mantle of the fireplace. Draco stood rutted to the ground, unable to find the right words to say.

Finally, Draco folded his hands and bowed his head. "My life belongs to you, my Lord."

Lord Voldemort again pursed his lips, but his gaze was still soft. "You are not ready yet I see. We shall talk again soon. My earlier orders stand. You are dismissed." He turned back to stare at the dancing flames and glowing embers.

Draco stiffened for a moment before bowing. He slowly walked out of the chamber, trying to remain calm and collected. Fenrir still lay on the stone floor, but Draco didn't want to be in the Dark Lord's presence any longer than he had to, especially not for a man he disliked.

Draco found the small man with the torch waiting in the corridor. He nodded to the young Malfoy before turning. The man's pace was much too slow. Draco wanted to run as far away as possible, as fast as possible.

He apparated back to his room as soon as he got out of the shadowy castle, not even taking the time to breathe in the fresh mountain air. He had to get back to the little girl.


	9. Elle Est Parfait

Elle Est Parfait-

Draco apparated to his room in the Malfoy Manor. Taking a deep breath, he crossed the hall and stood before the warm mahogany door. He unlocked it and slowly pushed it open. Attempting to display an image of confidence and sincerity, he strode into the room.

The girl, who had been at the window, spun around apprehensively when she heard him enter. She ran to the closest corner of the room, putting the bed in between her and the stranger.

The girl seemed to be a petite doll. She had long, curly brown hair of a warm, dark shade, pale skin that accentuated her rosy cheeks, and big blue eyes full of unveiled expression. Her dress was ripped and soiled, the outfit thoroughly ruined. Crouching, she looked like a trapped animal trying to minimize their body to display less of a target.

Draco slowed his pace and stopped at the edge of the bed. "I'm not going to hurt you," Draco said.

The girl's eyes, much too old and haunted for her age, searched his. Draco tried again. "I got you out of that battle. I want to help you. You are safe here." He carefully perched precariously on the bed, barely ruffling the linens, never taking his eyes off of hers.

Confusion briefly clouded the girl's clear face. The fear vanished, but then returned stronger than before. Draco sensed that she was not afraid of him anymore; rather she was remembering the battle. She ducked her head and wrapped her arms around herself.

Draco unhurriedly held out his hand. The girl stared for a moment before slowly walking forward. She walked to Draco and hugged him.

Draco tensed for a moment. The contact was a foreign experience to him, and he was not sure how to respond. When he heard a soft sob, Draco did something that he had never imagined himself doing: he hugged the girl back. He slowly rubbed her back and tried to soothe her, but he felt clumsy and inadequate.

After a while, she quieted and tilted her tear-stained face upwards. "Where is mummy?" she asked in a restrained whisper, as though afraid of her own voice and the answer she might receive. She had a faint accent that Draco was not quite able to place.

Draco had never felt the way he did when she said those few words. He had always prided himself on self-restraint and a passive nature, the perfect shield so that emotions did not affect his judgment. Yet a little girl was able to completely shatter it without even knowing he had the screen around his heart. Draco thought about how the little girl was too young to be so reserved, to be so worried yet indifferent about the possible loss of her mother. He wished, also, that he had loved his mother as much as the girl seemed to.

Draco got lost in his thoughts as he stared at the bare opposite wall, and was surprised when the little girl tapped his leg. She looked expectantly, yet scared, to Draco for his answer.

"I don't know where she is," Draco said truthfully and slowly. He tried to sugarcoat the truth as much as possible. "She could be at home waiting for you, worrying as much as you are for her. But it is possible your mother may be lost, at least for a while."

The little girl frowned, but she did not say anything. She sat on the bed next to Draco and looked around the room. She swung her tiny feet and watched them. After a moment she asked, "Who are you? Where are we?" Still swinging her feet, she looked over at him.

Draco smiled at her. "I am Draco Malfoy, and we are in my house. In the spare room across the hall from mine, actually. And who are you?"

The girl smiled back. "I'm Natara Descartes. I am three and a half years old," she held up three fingers and bent a fourth. "I live in France, but we are here to see the daughter of my mummy's friend get married. Though I do not know why they would have the wedding here. France is more beautiful. Il serais parfait, n'est pas?"

Draco nodded at her question. Luckily his father had made sure he was fluent in the romantic language of French. Of course France would be perfect.

"You hardly have an accent," Draco observed. "You must have worked very hard, and you must be very smart."

Natara shook her head. "My mummy is English like you. We come here a lot, and my mum still likes to speak it at home. I know the English language almost as well as French." She paused for a moment. Swinging her feet again, she frowned slightly and quietly admitted, "I'm hungry."

Draco felt like an idiot, and told Natara so. Of course the little girl would be hungry. It was dinnertime, and she might not have even had lunch, seeing as though they had attacked at 1:00. He nodded, and called for the house elf. Soon, they were having a "petite pique-nique" on the floor.

Draco was pleasantly surprised how easy talking to Natara was. She was a loquacious, fascinating girl, unafraid and trusting of him. She laughed easily, and smiled often. Her eyes betrayed her every once in a while, but most of the time Natara lived in the moment, unwilling to think about the battle and her mother's absence. Draco felt awkward at first; she liked physical contact and begged for conversation. Yet soon he forgot himself in the moment, wrapped up in the feeling of youthful bliss.

Nevertheless, Draco was never able to dispel the feeling of danger and dread. He thought about what Voldemort had asked him, and he felt the weight of oppressed fear.

Draco also worried about Natara. Where was he to take her; how would she find her family? He was not supposed to leave his own house; how was he going to find hers? But above all, he worried that she would be found and killed. He regretted helping her and putting her in danger as he simultaneously mentally thanked her for her simplistic joy and distraction.

He tried to ask about her family, and how to reunite them, but she was adverse to his advances. Natara did not want to talk about her family, or the wedding. Soon, Draco was forced to give up.

Deep in the recesses of his mind, he was slowly formulating a plan. If he could get her to the Order's headquarters, they might be able to protect her and locate someone to take care of her. For all Draco knew, someone at the headquarters might even be going to the same wedding. As the population of the wizarding world is relatively small, there is a good chance that someone would recognize Natara.

His cousin, Nymphadora Tonks, had been at the battle. It was more than likely that she was, in fact, another member of the Order of the Phoenix. Draco knew where she lived, if the book he had found in the Malfoy Library could be trusted.

Sighing softly, Draco made his choice. He would go to his cousin's home with Natara tomorrow.


	10. Mission: Accomplished

Mission: Accomplished

"It's time for bed now. You need to calm down!" Draco was calmly standing next to Natara's newly ruined bed, trying to coax her down. He was acting carefully, his movements slow and relaxing.

Natara, on the other hand, uninhibitedly jumped up and down, the bed shaking and groaning with each bounce. Her hair was a wild mess around her head, her eyes were sparkling with a crackling energy, and a huge smile was plastered on her washed face.

Draco had attempted to act like a parent, which was a scary, chilling thought. It had fortunately worked until he had taken her to the room and turned his back without making sure she was sleeping. Within moments, the bangs and laughter emitting from the little girl's bedroom could be heard echoing down the hall and into Draco's. She had gone from heavy-eyed and yawning to bright-eyed and hyper in under ten seconds. It had to be a world record.

"Natara…please, come down and go to sleep. Pour moi!" Draco begged in vain.

"Non, non! Je ne voudrais pas coucher!" Natara cried. Distress briefly flitted across her face.

Draco stopped himself from rolling his eyes and hitting his head on the wall. He softly sighed. This was not working out as he thought it would.

There was only one thing left to do. Pursing his lips in annoyance, he quickly ran into his room and grabbed a half-forgotten book. Going back into Natara's room, he perched on the edge of her bed and read. It was difficult to read with all the jiggling, and he hoped it was worth it. Draco knew that Natara was a curious girl, and he hoped to be able to use it against her.

Just as he had predicted, she demanded to know what he was reading. Draco pretended to ignore her, which made her want to know more. Natara's jumps got slower and lessened in fury. She tried to get his attention; he purposefully turned his back to her.

This upset her greatly, and she began to whine and give him the 'big eyes'.

"I would tell you what I am reading, but…" Draco tempted. Natara wanted to know what. "If only you would get in bed, maybe even lie down, I could read to you. I can't if you are jumping around, can I? But you do not want to go to bed, do you?"

Natara debated for a second, wiggled her mouth and nose, then slide beneath the covers.

"Read- le livre," she demanded, poking the book. "S'il vous plait," she added meekly.

Draco smiled and sat next to her so that she could see the pages and pictures. It was a book of myths and fairy tales, one of his favorites from his own childhood.

Natara was absolutely captivated by the stories. She gasped at the right places, held her breath when things got tense, leaned forward with anticipation, and clapped when everything was resolved and happy.

Soon she grew tired and fell asleep, her head awkwardly tilted against the back wall and her pillow propping up her back. Draco read almost a whole story before he noticed, and did not move for a while after that. Natara and her innocence and joy captivated him much as his stories had captivated her.

He managed to reposition her without waking her, and he pulled the covers up to her chin. He stealthily and quietly traversed her room. He gazed at her slumbering figure one more time before turning out the lights and closing the door.

Draco was thrown to the cold ground. His body quivered as he cowered, afraid to raise his gaze for he knew the fury that would be hovering there.

"You disappointed me, boy," Lord Voldemort towered over Draco, his body seeming to grow with his anger, enlarging an already huge presence. "You have failed me!"

"Please, my lord!" Draco managed to sputter, but it was no use.

"_Crucio!_"

Hot daggers pierced his flesh, tearing his muscles from the bone. Draco cried out in pain. After a moment, the spell was reluctantly lifted.

"Now you must be punished, young Malfoy!"

"No! Please! I beg you!"

"_Avada Kedavra!_"

Draco saw the stunned, horrified expression of his father's unmasked face as he fell to the green curse. He had willingly offered his life to the Dark Lord, and now he was unexpectedly forced to fulfill that promise.

"No…" Draco felt tears on his cheeks.

Voldemort smiled. "One more to go," he said gleefully. He turned to Narcissa, who looked shell-shocked and oblivious, lost in her own thoughts of the death. The Dark Lord raised his wand…

And started to poke Draco.

Draco woke up with a start. Natara was standing next to his bed, her face level with his own, poking his shoulder. It was all a dream.

"I'm hungry and bored. Its time to get up!" she demanded with her normal smile, trying to ease the command.

"Wh-what time is it?" Draco groggily asked.

"Il est sept heures. Actually, a little after seven. You sleep a lot!" She giggled, and then sauntered away. "I will let you get ready, d'accord?"

Draco let his head drop to the bed once she was out the door. The small groan was masked by his soft pillow.

This was the one reason he could never be a father, or at least not a doting one. The hours were terrible.

Draco managed to pull himself out of bed and into the shower. The cold jet woke him somewhat, but he needed his morning tea to fully awaken. He ordered their breakfast and went to get Natara.

He found her playing with some of the dolls he had conjured for her. After they ate, she was able to convince him to participate, and the morning was spent playing her new games.

After lunch, he took her outside. She was delighted with the gardens. She ran up and down the different paths, asking what the plants were, and pulling his hand to follow her. She expressed patriotic love of the perfect, manicured French gardens, splashed about in the water gardens, and climbed around on the rock garden, but found her favorite area to be the wild flowerbeds and woods in the back.

Near those gardens, Natara found the quidditch pitch. When Draco told her what it was, she clapped her hands and demanded to fly. Draco was adverse to the idea. He thought the dangers far outweighed the fun, but Natara held fast. She asked, whined, begged, and tempted him to take her. Eventually, she wore him down. Against Draco's better judgment, he took her flying.

Natara loved the wind on her face and the way it played with her hair. Through her eyes, Draco found a new appreciation of the sensations he was so used to, and felt the exhilaration of flight for the first time in many years. But even more than that, Draco loved the freedom the broom gave him, as though he was flying away from his prison.

It was nearly dinnertime by the time he started to think about his decision.

Draco did not want to give up his Natara, yet her knew he could not keep her. He was torn between want and necessity, a tough place for everyone. He was stuck between an idyllic world and the realistic world. Just the thought dampened his mood.

Yet it had to be done; he had to stick with his decision. He had to be strong.

Draco retrieved the Black family book from the library and found his cousin's address. He prepared to leave, changing his clothes and conjuring new ones for Natara. He checked to make sure his mother would be gone, and thus no one would hopefully notice his brief absence.

Getting Natara to go was a different matter.

She frowned and got depressed when he told her he was going to take her somewhere. She did not want to leave the Manor. Only when Draco told her that it was his cousin's home, and that she could return to him, did she agree, yet she still sulked and lingered.

He dressed her up in a pretty new outfit, one without the dirt and grass stains that testified to the afternoon's adventures, and bundled her up in a green jacket to guard against the wind.

Draco understood why Natara did not want to go. It meant going back to the real world, into the arms of new strangers, and it meant having to think about the battle and the fate of her mother. The Manor had been her safe escape shielding her from the real world as much as it ultimately kept Draco from it.

Lifting Natara up into his arms, Draco hugged her tightly and kissed her forehead. He whispered words of comfort and encouragement before apparating them to Nymphadora Tonks's address.

It was a dirty, dejected street, filled with trash yet deserted of people. Draco's brow and nose wrinkled, and he unconsciously held Natara closer. Someone, especially his cousin, actually lived here? Looking at the house numbers, he realized her home was not in fact there.

Draco awkwardly reached into his pocket and looked at the correct page once more. Looking up, the house seemed to materialize out of thin air, pushing the buildings next to it at it grew.

Draco's eyebrows shot up. Why was she in hiding? And who was her secret keeper? He started to ponder and speculate.

Natara shivered in his arms, bringing him back to reality. He had a mission to accomplish.

Natara rested her head on his shoulder, as though burrowing into him. "I don't like it here. Je suis effrayé."

He shushed her, whispering that everything was fine and that there was nothing to be afraid of because he was there.

Draco put on an air of confidence and purposefully strode up to the door. He knocked quickly and sharply, and then stepped back. Suddenly unsure, he quickly dived behind a large, old oak tree in the small, grassless yard.

There was shouting in the house, then the sound of something falling and breaking, and finally the front door swung open, revealing a dark interior and a petite woman: his cousin.

The look of exasperation was replaced by an unhappy scowl, then confusion.

Tonks took a few timid steps down the front steps to the sidewalk and was about to walk back inside when a movement at the periphery of her vision caught her eye.

When she cast her eyes upon the tree, Draco stepped out from behind. Silently and carefully, he walked over to her. She was startled and stared back in shock.

Natara's head was still tucked into Draco's chest, her arms firmly gripping his light jacket, and she quietly protested when he attempted to disentangle her. He kissed her again then handed Natara to Tonks who automatically accepted her. He nodded, then turned and walked away.

"Wait!" Tonks yelled as soon as she found her voice, but he was already gone.


	11. Hurting and Healing

Chapter 11- Hurting and Healing

Draco breathed in deeply and quietly opened the door. He had just arrived home, and felt a bit apprehensive. Yet the halls were as deserted as before.

No one was running around, no one was waiting for him, no one grabbed him, no one demanded to know where he had been. A soft sigh escaped through his down-turned lips as the empty scene met his dull, cheerless eyes. He was not sure why, but he was disappointed.

A small voice quivered at the edge of his mind. _Did you think they would care? Did you think they would even notice?_ Voldemort had told him that he must stay, and Draco was foolish enough to think that the command had meant he would be punished if he left. He had apparated; obviously the Death Eaters around the house had not become aware of his quick trip to London.

Draco lethargically walked to his bed and flopped down. With his face buried in the pillow, he let out a sob. No one was there for him. No one cared about him. He was no one to everyone.

Curled up in the fetal position, Draco watched the sun set outside his window. A beautiful scene appeared as the sun fell behind the trees, and the colorful fading light resonated in Draco. People tend to forget about the sun. They rush and hurry, going about their business, working themselves to exhaustion for worthless, worldly objects. Head down and focused on themselves and their hollow goals, they never look up and see the beauty. They never stop to watch something so common, slow, and useless as the changing sky.

They forget, and do not watch. The sun is so constant and consistent, people get habitualized, able to look but not see. The sun sets as battles rage, fights escalate, the ailing dies, lovers are torn apart, and lives are ruined. The sun sets as people meet, children play, family reunites, and the tide calmly crashes. The sun is uncontrollable, inexplicable, and unaware of the things around it.

Draco was engulfed by the growing darkness. Restless, yet still feeling lethargic, Draco pulled himself up. Tightly gripping his bedpost, he regained his balance and ran his fingers through his hair. Straightening his wrinkled muggle clothes, he slipped on his shoes and apparated to an empty, unsafe part of London. He stuffed his hands into his pockets, making sure he had his wand and wallet.

Leisurely, he plodded along with his head down. A few blocks away, a door opened and the street was quickly filled with the sounds of shouting, music, and laughter, which died as the door slammed shut. Entering the shabby establishment, Draco found himself in a rowdy club. Ignoring the small dance floor crammed with people, he stalked over to the bar and ordered a drink. As he attempted to get to one of the empty rickety tables, he was jostled and pushed about.

Worn-out, miserable, and now angry, Draco quickly downed his drink and ordered more. He swirled the glasses, looking deep into the beautiful liquid before tipping it back and emptying it into his awaiting mouth. Soon, his table was covered with empty glasses and his vision was blurry.

Draco had hoped to drink his problems away, yet instead he found that they seemed to be amplified and distorted. His ghosts became solid, his fears scratched ominously on his psyche, and his sorrows drowned out the loud, raucous music.

Getting up, a man bumped into Draco.

"Hey, watch it!" Draco's words were slurred. He sluggishly turned to look at the man and struggled out of his chair, blinking furiously against the fuzzy distortion from the alcohol. His limbs did not want to respond like normal. But more than that, his entire body and mind felt weird as he changed position.

"Why don' you, 'k?" The man seemed to be as drunk as Draco. His brow was furrowed, and he squinted his watery eyes at Draco, scanning and sizing him up. "You lil'… lil' ferret!" He laughed heartily at his own lame joke, unaware of the memories he had caused.

Within seconds, the man was on the floor with a bloody nose.

"Wha… wha' the hell?" the man yelled as he attempted to wipe the blood away. Quicker than it seemed possible, he was back on his feet, fists flying toward Draco.

Draco was able to duck the first one, but the second punch caught his eye. Draco punched back blindly; he was too drunk and obsessed with hurting the other man to try to block the hits he was receiving. The other was bigger, older, and stronger. Fighting in a dingy bar was probably no new thing to him.

Their fight brought them near the dance floor. Draco slipped and fell, hitting the back of his head on a table with a loud thud. The man grabbed Draco's arm and twisted his behind him. There was a sickening crack as the arm broke. Draco curled up, choking on the blood in his mouth, unwilling to fight anymore. Lifting up a nearby chair, the drunkard broke it over Draco's head. The man reached down again, and Draco kicked. The man fell swearing as Draco flailed around. His hand found a chair leg, and he thrust it in the general direction of the man. The man let out a brief yelp, then grabbed Draco's head and slammed it against the foot of the table as hard as he could.

Pain engulfed Draco briefly, and then the darkness from the edge of his vision slowly took over.

Draco slowly woke up. He did not know where he was, and could not remember why he hurt so much. He could not move as though he was belted down to the bed, and his eyelids were as heavy as lead. He parted his lips and tried to say something, though it certainly did not come out as anything recognizable.

His head pounded, and he was nauseated. He remembered drinking, but… It hit him. He had been in a fight. But that still did not explain where he was and how he got there.

He struggled to open his eyes, blinking furiously against the bright light.

Draco was in his bed back at the manor. After a few seconds, he realized that there was only one candle burning, creating a pattern of dark shadows throughout the room. Slowly and carefully, he turned his head toward the light. Sitting in a plush chair a few feet from his bed, his mother was intensely reading a book and biting her thumbnail. She looked up as he moved, and stared at him for a moment, clearly in shock.

"Draco, darling! You're… you are awake!" She jumped up, carelessly threw her book to the side, bending some of the yellowing pages, and ran daintily to his side. Gripping his hand, she confessed her fears with utter sincerity and anxiety that extended from her eyes to her posture. "I was so worried! We could not find you for three hours, and I was so afraid you… I worried that… we thought…" Narcissa stopped and turned her head down to the left, away from Draco.

After a pause, she restarted. "I was not sure I would see you again. I thought you surely would have been found by the Order or… or… k-killed." Narcissa choked, letting out a sob. She gave up trying to speak and hugged Draco instead, burrowing her head.

Draco smiled and hugged back as best he could. This was how it was supposed to be; this was family. People that care about you, people that worry about your safety, people that love you. He breathed deeply, bringing in his mother's scent. A smile flitted across his face.

"I…I'm fine, mother," he managed to croak.

"I know, I know. You are home now, with me." Narcissa released him and perched beside him on the bed. She smoothed his hair and stroked his cheek. "Do not scare me like that again, okay?"

Draco smiled and nodded, already slipping back into sleep. His eyes simply would not stay open.

Narcissa smiled sweetly at her son. "I… I love you, Draco," she whispered as he drifted off.

"I love you too," Draco murmured as oblivion overtook his senses. He was able to sleep better than any other time he could remember. His nightmares were gone, leaving a restful peace.

He was content.


	12. Q & A

12- Q & A

When Draco awoke once more, Narcissa was still by his side. It had not merely been a pleasant dream; she looked like she had not stirred from her vigil. His mother quickly floated to his bed, carrying a tray crammed with his favorite foods. She laid it on the table beside him, and smiled sweetly as he ate.

Miraculously, his headache was gone, as was the pain in his limbs, though it was replaced by soreness. He was able to eat a little, but his appetite was almost nonexistent.

Frowning slightly, he stared at Nacissa.

"What is it, darling?" she asked, suddenly worried that something was wrong.

Draco shook his head. "Why are you doing this?" he demanded. "You are never like this anymore."

"Darling… it's just, you know…" Narcissa played with her book and fidgeted in the chair, struggling to look cheerful. "I never meant to stop. You know I have always loved you, and always will, and would have spoiled you if your father had not stepped in." Breathing heavily she nodded as if she had made a decision.

A pause stretched between them, chilling the room slightly and making both Malfoys uncomfortable. Draco questioned his mother again. "But why did you act like you did not care? Why were you always gone?"

Narcissa laughed nervously and swatted at Draco's arm playfully. "These are very tough questions, Draco. You know that I do not like tough things, conversations that make me think too hard. What is wrong with not knowing, not having all the answers? I am not sure… I do not think I can really answer you as well as you would like me to. I was gone, because I needed to do my job, and you had acted like a normal teenager; you wanted your space and privacy. I had overbearing parents when I grew up and I was determined not to be like them. Of course, that means I traded bad parenting for none at all. I never thought it bothered you. Maybe it was because I knew that I would have wanted it, or maybe I was just blind, or maybe, just maybe, I did not know you because I was gone too much. You seemed happy enough; happier, I think, than you had since the beginning of the war.

"I know the war has been hard on you. It's been hard on all of us; you just feel it more acutely. We never meant to push you, your father and I. Its just… there are certain… expectations. As a son of two Death Eaters, and a high ranking one at that, you were expected to be a great and willing one also. Follow in your father's footsteps or whatever. At the very least, you were expected to finish your task. With all the help that was given, I almost thought it was impossible to fail. I had not realized that you would not ask for the help. I am sorry; I misjudged you, the person I am supposed to know the best. You were not ready for the burden, and I was pained to see how you struggled so. You needed time and guidance; cruelly, both were denied to you. I will not let that happen again, I promise.

"As for you other question, I could tell you that you were wrong in your observation, or that you just were not looking at the correct things, that I pulled strings behind your back, but that in itself would be cruel and unusual punishment. I was always gone, as you so aptly pointed out, so there were few opportunities for me to become reacquainted with your moods and personality. Like now: I do not know how to read you. I was not sure how you would react to failing your task: rage, depression, obsession, violence, pleasure, manic behavior, I have seen it all. I thought you might even blame me, as a fellow Death Eater, and as your mother. I could not protect you, and it tore me up inside. I tried; believe me, I did. I went to people to help you, but…

"When I told your father, the day after your ruined assignment, he commanded me to ignore you and stop worrying. He said that I must distance myself, for we both need to grow up and grow apart. We have jobs to do, and our work is affected by one another. You know how the Dark Lord does not care for love, and ever since the Potter problem, he cannot stand mother-son relationships unless he can manipulate and use them. I am truly sorry I have been so cold. I know that I am not a good mother; I never did get the hang of it. So many people told me what to do, and it turned out to be wrong. But believe me when I say I love you, and I always have and always will, no matter what."

Narcissa sighed and sank back into her chair. The long speech seemed to have taken everything out of her, but she looked content, albeit tired and a little anxious. Her limbs draped over the armrests as she waited for her son's response.

Turning from his reverie, Draco stared at his petite, elegant mother. She smiled at him weakly, and he smiled back.

"Its fine, mother. I understand."

Narcissa sighed, clearly relived. She gracefully got up and embraced her only child.

"I love you," she softly cooed.

"I love you too, mother."

After two full days in bed, Draco grew restless. He demanded to be allowed outside for fresh air and exercise. Narcissa was hesitant and fearful at first, but she was soon worn down. She just wanted him safe and pleased.

With his mother at his side, Draco got out of bed tenderly. His leg had been broken at some point, along with his arm, nose, and ribs. Although he was sore, he had taken enough potions that he was not in pain. His bones had already been knitted back together, so there was no risk of re-injury.

Draco liked that his mother was doting and being overprotective. He had not had that type of attention since he was a baby. To say the least, Narcissa was not a traditional, loving mother, but now she was trying. Most people would have been irritated, and many would have shaken her off. Conversely, Draco allowed and, to some extent, encouraged his mother's attention.

As they slowly walked around the gardens, the two caught up on lost time. Draco talked of school, books, and quidditch, whereas Narcissa spoke of Death Eaters, parties, purchases, and old acquaintances that Draco only half remembered. They said anything that popped into their minds.

The conversation flowed peacefully and easily. The subjects, though random, linked beautifully in neutral territory. Everything they had wanted to say spilled off their tongues and into the other's waiting ear. They talked as they had never before.

Draco felt as though it was all a pleasant dream. If he had not taken the potions and felt the pain, if he had not awoken every day, he would have scarcely believed the change in his mother. He wondered at what had brought it about, but quickly put it out of his mind. It was better to not question more that he already had.

The next day was much of the same. While walking in the garden, with Narcissa chatting away cheerfully, Draco stopped walking. It took Narcissa a moment to notice that he was not by her side anymore. She turned to find him staring intently at the ground.

"Darling, what is it?" she asked lightly.

Draco pursed his lips, and remained as unmoving and blank as the statue beside him. Suddenly, his eyes snapped up and he swiftly blurted out, "Are you happy?"

Startled, Narcissa laughed, trying to remain lighthearted. "What ever do you mean?"

"Are you," Draco asked gravely, "happy with your life, your situation?"

Narcissa tilted her head daintily, frowning slightly at his abrupt change in mood, and a little put out over the change in conversation. "Yes, I should say I am quite content."

"And are you happy with the war?"

Narcissa was taken back by such a blunt question. With her hand on her heart and a bewildered look on her face, she solemnly answered. "No, no. I am not happy at all with the current state. But everyone hates it. Why do you ask? I thought the interrogation was over."

Draco ignored her question. He turned to show his profile to her, as to not look at her face.

"Why are you a Death Eater?"

"Draco - darling! Why are you asking me – "

"Why," Draco asked forcefully through clenched teeth, "are you a Death Eater?"

Narcissa's bottom lip jutted out as she pouted. The conversation was not going her way, and she did not like it. "I do not see why you are interrogating me. We were having such a nice day."

"Why, mother?"

Narcissa closed her eyes. "I do not want to set a bad example for you, and I certainly do not want you to think less of me, or your father." Draco tried to speak, but she held up her hand to stem his words. "Let me finish. After this, please, no more questions. At least not for a while. If you need to know, which I do not think you do, but if you think you do… Your father made me. He gave me to the Dark Lord, much in the same way he offered you. It was to increase Lord Voldemort's favor. It was not my choice, but my life was never mine. I love your father and would do anything for him. He decided this would be best, and it is. But please, I still do not need to know. That is between your father, the Dark Lord, and myself." Narcissa looked at Draco with anticipation and puzzlement, her eyes trying to understand what Draco was thinking.

Draco stared at the ground once more, determined not look at his mother. He nodded once and spun on his heel. "I guess we are on the same page, then." He stalked away, leaving his mother confused in the dying garden.

"Draco – please!" his mother cried after him. "What are you talking about? Draco!"

But he was already disappearing out of eyesight.


	13. The Paris Encounter

13- The Paris Encounter

Draco stalked to his room, the harsh footsteps echoing and magnifying in the empty stone corridors. He slammed his door behind him and flopped onto his plush bed, sinking in to the comfort and protection it seemed to offer. He furrowed his brow as he remembered his mother's words. _Your father made me_. Lucius had offered his entire family to Lord Voldemort to better his position. Without thinking about their own desires, he had forced both Narcissa and, later, Draco to become Death Eaters to further his own cause. Lucius did not love his family; he had used them, betrayed them, and left them. Letting out a loud roar heavily laced with frustration, Draco pummeled his pillow as though it was his father's sneering face. It was Lucius's fault; everything was because of him.

After his fury had dissipated, Draco felt drained and more than a little foolish. It was not his mother he was angry at, yet he had behaved badly toward her by blowing up and leaving her in the garden. Still, Malfoys do not apologize, so he resolved to simply ignore her, which would be easy enough, as she also seemed intent on ignoring him. Dinnertime came and went, but Draco stubbornly remained in his room. The shadows lengthened and darkness slowly fell like a silent curtain enclosing him, like a thin net carefully capturing a skittish, treasured fish.

Quite suddenly, the door slowly opened and Narcissa hesitantly peered inside. Draco remained on the bed with his head facing the window, refusing to move to acknowledge his mother. He steadily watched the sunset and wished her to leave. Instead, Narcissa, convinced that Draco would not get furious, inched inside and quietly shut the door behind her.

"Draco darling?" she whispered, breaking the web of stillness that had swathed Draco's room. He did not answer. "Draco, I know you are hurting. I understand, and I wish you would talk to me, but if you do not want to, that is okay too." She was met with stony silence. Narcissa sighed heavily and obsequiously walked over to the bed. Carefully, she sat on the edge and looked out the window to see what had captured her only child's attention.

"What a beautiful sunset," she whispered. "I have always loved them. The brilliant colors, the soft light, the creeping deepness. Making things visible that were hidden by the light. Sunsets bring quiet, rest, recovery…" her voice petered out as she watched the growing darkness. When the sky's radiant tints were finally turned to a deep indigo, she spoke again.

"You should not be angry at him, not so much at least. He made some stupid mistakes, which he regrets, yet he has tried to be a good father and husband. He loves us; I know it does not seem like it, but I know in my heart that he does. I think he wanted us to be in his life, and that is why he brought us to Lord Voldemort. He found friends and passion in the Death Eaters, and he wanted us to experience it with him; he wanted us to share his joy. You were not ready, and he pushed you too much, but I think that you will come to love it as we have. Yes, we: your father and myself. I did not like it at first, but it as grown on me. And I have friends there, plus my sister. I have power, a say in things, because of the Dark Lord. It is not a bad job, not a bad place, and certainly not bad people. Your father and I learned our lesson; next time, you decide when to start. Okay? You are in charge, and we will support your decision, whenever that is. How does that sound Draco? You choose, okay?"

Draco rolled over to look at his mother. "You promise?" he asked earnestly, searching her face for deception.

Narcissa smiled and nodded as she stroked his hair. "I promise." After another second, she jumped up nimbly and held out her hand to her son. "Let's get some dinner; you must be starving!"

Although things were not perfect, they were better than normal between Narcissa and Draco. They had a few subjects that were off limits, mainly dealing with Lucius and the Death Eaters, but their conversations were pleasant and unforced. Draco was not sure whether Narcissa steered the discussions away from these topics for her own benefit or for Draco's. In some aspects, it seemed like Narcissa viewed her son as a fragile, glass bomb: too much pushing and the glass breaks, say the wrong thing and the bomb explodes. Whichever way, life at the manor was still better than Draco could ever remember.

Much to his surprise, Narcissa decided to take him to Paris with her.

"Merlin knows you have been cooped up here too long. The fresh scenery will do you good, and who will tell on us?" Narcissa casually reasoned on day.

It had been several years since Draco had been to France, but it was as wonderful and beautiful as ever. In their week trip, Draco had attempted to drag his mother to all the normal tourist attractions for old-times sake, but she quickly bored, and so they spent most of their time shopping.

After the fifth day, Draco grew tired of being a bag carrier, so after lunch he decided to split from Narcissa. He assured her he would stay out of trouble, and saw her off.

Deciding that exercise and fresh air would 'do him good', Draco set off on a long walk along the picturesque city streets. He let his feet take him where they would; he did not want his thoughts to disrupt the peace. Enjoying his surroundings, he was surprised to see he had been walking for over an hour. He knew that he should be getting back before his mother worried, but he did not know where he was. He had wandered out of the busy city center, far from the gawking tourists and rushing locals, and now seemed to be in a residential quarter. Slightly put off, but not alarmed, Draco turned to a likely looking local, who was lazily strolling down the other side of the serene road.

"Excuse-moi, monsieur!" Draco called. "Pardon, mais… où'est-ce que je suis?" Draco smiled lopsidedly, trying to set the man at ease, as well as getting him to pity him. The French are notoriously rude, but Draco was sure that his accent was perfect and he looked fine.

The man frowned and ambled over to Draco. He had a familiar air, but her could not place it.

Sneering, the man said, in perfect English, "What? Are you lost, Malfoy?"

It was Draco's turn to frown. How did this person know him? Why could he not remember them?

"You do not recognize me, do you? Ah, I have to have this illusion ore else people will come after me, either to kill me or to make me protect them. Can never turn my back. But who let you out of your cage, ferret?"

Ferret? What classmate was this? Only a few knew, but… no.

"Potter?" Draco's eyebrows shot upwards. The man, Harry Potter, simply smiled at him. "What are you doing in Paris?"

Harry shook his head. "I should be asking you the same thing. I think we have a lot to talk about, do you not agree?"

Draco backpedaled, raising his palms to stop Harry Potter. "I have nothing to say, and you do not have anything I am willing to hear, either. I do not know what you are playing at, but I am out. I will find my own way home." Draco turned around and began to walk away.

Harry let out a short laugh. "Oh, no you don't. You talked to me first, remember? Now, would you rather do this the easy or hard way?"


	14. The Interrogation

The Interrogation-

Draco looked around the dimly lit apartment. Harry Potter had taken him here, but had not spoken to him as to why. Draco had been seated at the table in the little kitchen and left alone.

Sighing, Draco got up and went to find something to drink. As he was reaching for a bottle of butterbear, the front door slammed and he could hear hushed, urgent voices followed by quick footsteps coming toward him. The door swung open, revealing the trio.

Hermione Granger recoiled slightly, Ron Weasley scowled as always, and it was Harry Potter, carefully neutral, that spoke first.

"Have a seat, Malfoy. We need to talk."

Draco did as he was told with wide eyes. The public had not seen the Trio together since Potter had left the Burrow merely a month after Dumbledore's funeral and the subsequent closure of Hogwarts. It had been speculated that they had simply split up and Ron and Hermione had gone into hiding only coming out when Harry needed them the most, commanding the Order from a secluded place, and letting the Order take care of the war for them until the 'Final Battle', as it was being called. Every now and then, a picture of them on vacation would surface and it was hailed as proof, but they all turned out to be forgeries. The Trio, along with Ginny Weasley, were only seen when they were fighting, thus their movements and conditions were unknown.

Remembering himself, Draco smirked and tilted his head toward Ron. "It never changes, does it, Weasley?"

Ron's brow furrowed further, and Draco could clearly see that he was tightly gripping his wand in his pocket. Hermione gently laid her hand on Ron's arm, as if she were prepared to hold him back. This simple and almost useless gesture made Ron visibly relax, causing Draco's eyebrows to rise briefly at the two of them.

Turning back to Harry, Draco asked, "And how long will I be held here? I would not want my mother to worry, and she is expecting me to be back by dark, which is in an hour or so."

Harry opened his mouth but Ron was quicker. "Don't want your mum to worry about you, Malfoy? Oh, aren't you the best son in the world. Don't want _mummy_ to worry! And why should we care? She's a bloody Death Eater!"

Draco frowned, but it was Harry that reprimanded Ron.

Hermione hesitated, her eyes flickering between Harry and Ron, before she answered Draco's question. "We are not entirely sure, but we think, or at least I think, and I can't see why not, you should be able to go in, oh, a few hours. You might be able to get home by dark, so you really shouldn't worry."

Harry nodded. "We just want to know what you know, and if you answer the questions, we will let you go."

Draco gave a short laugh, "What I know? I don't know anything! They don't tell me what is going on, I don't normally talk to my mother, I'm not permitted to leave the house, and I have only left it twice since Dumbledore. This is one, that horrible battle was the other."

"Are you sure about that?" Harry asked. His voice was low and edged, and his narrowed eyes pierced Draco's flesh, looking inside for the truth he was seeking.

Draco began to nod, then pensively stared at a random spot in space. "Oh, yeah. I went to my cousin's house. Nymphadora Tonks. But I do not see -" Draco was cut off by the Trio's laughter.

Hermione composed herself and, still smiling, turned to Ron. "Remind me to tell Tonks that."

Draco was confused, though he only let a brief expression of annoyance flit across his otherwise blank face. "What do you think is so fun?"

Harry had a half-smile on his face. "She doesn't let anyone call her Nymphadora. Its Tonks, just Tonks." Suddenly his smile disappeared, replaced by pursed lips and suspicious eyes. Harry began to shoot off rapid, urgent questions. "Why did you go to Tonks's?"

"I dropped a girl off."

"That does not tell me much. What girl? Why Tonks?"

"A little kid from the battle. You don't know her. And Tonks because she was the only one I could think of that is not a bloody Death Eater."

"And you did not want her with a Death Eater."

"Yeah."

"Why? You are a Death Eater yourself."

"That was not my choice, and really I am technically only the Dark Lord's servant; I do not have the Dark Mark yet. She would have been killed by a Death Eater, finishing the job, and all that." Draco coolly answered, looking at Harry as though he were ludicrous for even asking him to explain his reasons.

Harry's eyebrows shot up and he briefly turned to the other two for support. Hermione saw his loss for words and stepped forward, leaving Ron still leaning against the doorway.

"Now, Malfoy," she began softly. "Where did you get her?"

Draco laughed. " 'Get her'? What do you mean, 'get her'? I watched her fall during the battle, and I 'got her' to safety. Who do you think I am? I did not kidnap her or anything!"

Hermione frowned and a look of honest worry crossed her kind, graceful face. "Fall? Was she hurt?"

Draco sighed. "She had a lot of cuts, mainly on her arms and legs. Scrapes on her face, twisted ankle, stuff like that. A Death Eater hit her with a spell, but I do not know which one. Luckily, I was able to heal all that. She was just unconscious for a while, and then was fine. No big deal. Why do you care?"

Hermione ignored his question and eagerly asked her own. "And her name? Where was she from?"

Draco narrowed his eyes and slightly turned his head. His gaze shifted adeptly from Hermione's enthralled and excited face to Harry's expectant yet reserved face, landing at last on Ron's distrusting scowl.

"What is this?" Draco demanded harshly in a dangerous voice. "Why do you care? You do not even know the girl, and I am sure that you are not trying to decipher my character by analyzing how I reacted to the situation with the girl. So why am I here, and what the hell do you want?"

By the end of his rant, Malfoy was shouting, spitting each word with hatred, and he found himself on his feet, attempting to tower over the cowering figures of the Trio. They had stepped back from him, and Hermione had raised her hands to stop his words.

"Calm down, Malfoy," Harry said delicately. "If you do not want to talk about the little girl, then we will not talk about the little girl. Just… please. I want to know… some more things. Okay, Malfoy?" Harry's voice and gaze were steady, and he motioned for Draco to sit down, which Draco did grudgingly. Malfoy slouched low in the chair and crossed his arms, putting up a physical barrier as well as a mental one.

"That's better," said Harry indifferently. "Now, on with the business at hand. Why did you become a Death Eater, Malfoy?"

Malfoy snorted. "I was supposed to. My parents raised me for the job, I was promised when I was born, and what else was I supposed to do? Both my parents are Death Eaters, and the Dark Lord was going to kill them if I did not follow through with 'the plan'. If you were in my position, what would you do?"

Harry grimly nodded. "And you do not want to work for Voldemort?"

Draco rolled his eyes, clearly disgusted with the obvious and tedious questions. "Oh, yeah. I absolutely love working for the Dark Lord. Who doesn't want to be afraid of their boss? Of the punishment for failure?" Draco's sardonic voice was dripping in thinly veiled sarcasm. "In fact, everyone should have to work with the thought of painful, premature death hanging over them. I have found it is a wonderful motivator."

"Then," Harry asked carefully, "why did you not accept Dumbledore's help?"

Draco was startled. He wondered how Potter had learned about what happened on the Tower, or if he was just taking a carefully measure guess. Eyes narrowed, Draco slowly asked, "What are you talking about, Potter?"

Harry smiled; he had caught his prey. "I mean, when Dumbledore offered to hide you and your family. He said that the Order would protect you. Yet you just stood there on the Tower, much like you are just sitting here now, and you did not even try to contact us. Why not?"

Hermione and Ron exchanged confused looks; obviously Harry had failed to mention those details about the night on the Tower.

Draco closed his eyes and let out a slow breath. Draco whispered, more to himself than to Harry, "Dumbledore is dead. No one, or, at least, I did not think anyone, heard our conversation. I could not go to the Order; you would have killed me. I could not ask you to hide my parents, as I know perfectly well that they would refuse and kill me for my incompetence, betrayal, and distrust. I am not delusional, just idealistic. No one has left Voldemort and survived, except maybe Snape, though no one is sure of his loyalties, and if Dumbledore could be killed…" Draco opened his eyes as his voice petered out. He shook his head as though he could get the bad memories out of his heavy mind.

"Is there anything else, Potter?" Draco sounded exhausted and defeated, finally realizing the lies he had to live with and the difficulties of his situation.

The slamming of the front door cut off Harry's answer. A voice called out.

"We're in here!" Ron shouted and a few seconds later his ginger-haired sister, Ginny Weasley, appeared.

She froze when she saw Draco. "What his he doing here?"

"He is answering some questions," Harry softly replied, touching her hand. "Did you bring her?"

Distractedly Ginny nodded and fluttered her hand back the way she came. Hermione caught Harry's eye before she left the room.

Resting his head on his hand, Draco dryly observed, "Well, isn't this a pleasant reunion. I have not seen you all since… I left Hogwarts."

Ginny frowned at him, but no one responded.

Hermione reappeared, holding her hand out to someone behind her that Draco couldn't see.

"Come on, hun," she pleaded. "It's okay." Shyly, Natara poked her head around the doorway, hugging the wall with all her strength. She warily looked around the room, but as soon as her eyes fell on Draco, her whole aura changed.

Natara smiled, clapped her hands, and ran to Malfoy. Hugging him for dear life, she climbed into his lap. "C'est vrai? Is it you?" she anxiously asked, clearly relieved.

Draco smiled. "C'est moi."

Ginny, Ron, and Hermione looked shocked at the reunion, but Harry simply shrugged his shoulders, looking on with a detached interest.

"Like I thought," he muttered softly as Natara babbled in a strange mix of French and English, happy to be back with someone she knew.

C'est vrai?- Is it true?

C'est moi- It is me


	15. The Request

The Request-

After a couple hours in the sole company of Draco, Natara tired against her will. In vain she tried to hide it, insisting that she was wide-awake and not at all ready for bed. Only an enormous yawn gave away her fatigue.

She unwillingly let Draco lead her upstairs and tuck her into bed, but was asleep before Draco even turned out the light. Softly closing the door and smiling to himself, Draco quietly padded down the stairs into the kitchen.

Finding himself quite alone, Draco rummaged around the kitchen for food. He had not had dinner, and he had been unable to grab the butterbear before Potter and his gang had burst in and interrogated him.

Having never had to make his own sandwich, Draco Malfoy never learned how to make a proper sandwich. He understood the basics- the concept, the physics. But he had never understood the joy of cooking, or even the purpose. This being known, it was no wonder that his creation was a pile of ingredients rather than a final product. Picking carefully at his homemade meal, Draco devoured the food and drained his cup of butterbear.

He still had not been told why they were holding him; he had no idea where he was even if he wanted to leave. He had promised Natara that he would be there when she woke up, but what about his mother?

He had told her that he would be back by dark, yet it had been dark for some hours. If he did not go back soon, she would grow worried and search for him to no avail. Potter was too smart and much too cautious to let a wandering person find his home. She would then be forced to go to the Dark Lord and tell him that Draco was missing. When Narcissa brought the news of what happened, the Dark Lord would punish her, for Draco was not allowed to leave the Malfoy Manor, much less go to France on holiday.

The door swung open silently, breaking Draco's disquiet reverie. Harry Potter strode into the room, heading straight for the table. He sat down across from Draco and folded his hands on the table before him, never breaking eye contact.

"We are at a crossroads, Malfoy." Harry began gravely.

Draco tilted his head slightly, wondering what would happen next, but he did not respond.

Taking this as an invitation to carry on, Harry Potter gave a sympathetic look that seemed to pierce Draco's mind, then continued.

"Obviously, we want you to be safe and on our side. Your concern for your family does you credit, but it has hindered your own life, truncated your own free will and suspended your own decisions. It is your decision, but we also need you for Natara, of course. She won't talk to any of us; she seemed rather listless before you came. I still do not understand it, but I have a feeling that I am not meant to.

"I realize that you probably want to go home, as your mother will be worrying. We can let you do this, but I want to first ask a favor of you. Actually, two favors, but the other goes without saying.

"Please do not mention this place or that we were here, which should be common sense. What happened here should stay here. I also want to suggest that you try to get out of missions for Voldemort, as you were not able to adequately hide your contempt last time, and someone will eventually notice that you do not actually do anything. This is for your safety as much as ours, you must understand. We would also ask of you, if you are willing, to stay in contact with us, or, more specifically, Natara."

Draco was startled. Whipping his head and displaying his best confused look, Malfoy sardonically mimicked Harry Potter. "Stay in contact with you? If I am willing? Are you joking? I will get killed if I get caught, and you know I will. I can't leave my house without people knowing, my mail is thoroughly checked to the point where no letter has gotten through yet, and do you really think that no one would notice? I would never be safe, which was what you claimed you wanted me to be. There's no way in hell that it will work."

Draco pushed himself away from the table and looked away, slightly shocked at what Potter was asking of him.

A soft cough by Harry drew his eye and mind back to the present. Potter reached into his pocket and gingerly extracted a small package wrapped in dull brown paper.

"This," Harry said softly, "was given to me in our fifth year. My dad and Serius Black used them to communicate during school, and the thought was that I could take my father's place. Unfortunately, I never got to use it before my godfather was killed by your aunt Bellatrix during the battle in the Department of Mysteries." Harry's voice petered out and his eyes lost their focus as he thought back on the painful memory.

Draco took the package out of Harry's outstretched hand and slid the object out of the paper. It was a small hand mirror, about the size of his fist. The handle was golden but other than that it was quite plain. Draco looked questioningly at Harry Potter, trying to decipher what he was supposed to do.

Harry sadly smiled. "It's a two-way mirror. I will give the other to Natara. All you have to do is say her name and, if she has with her, she will appear and you can talk as though you were with her. It is a little like the floo network, only secure and you do not actually go anywhere. No one else has anything like this, so no one will know what it is if they find it. I am sure people will think you really are that vain, and they wont suspect a think. Keep it on you at all times. We can track you that way, and contact you if we need to. If any of us appear, please answer our questions truthfully.

"I am not asking you to spy. I just want to stay in touch, and it helps that you are in a position that lets you get information that may be of use to us. All you have to do is go home as though nothing happened; act like you simply got lost. Can you do this for me, Malfoy? For Natara?"

Draco stared at his reflection. Could he do it? Was he strong enough, courageous enough? Absently, he nodded his agreement, as much saying that he would do it as he could do it.


End file.
